


The Way the Heavens Go

by solojones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Case Fic, Character Study, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solojones/pseuds/solojones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock brings John and Mary along with him on a case in Florence, but he has an ulterior motive: to reunite with Irene and explore intimacy on every level. But Sherlock and Irene quickly realise they have to face the reality of old wounds alongside the fantasies of their new relationship. And as the deceptions escalate, John fears his friend may be falling into another dangerous trap. And this time, it might be up to John to do the saving.</p><p>Part romance, part bromace, all angst. A sequel to my stories 'The Sign of the Four' and 'What He Likes', but can be read alone. I've written a lot of the story already and will try to update twice a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New readers: If you haven't read the fics this follows, never fear. Relevant details from Sherlock's post-Reichenbach return in 'The Sign of the Four' are covered in this story. More specific instances from Sherlock and Irene's relationship in 'What He Likes' are referenced, but will be explored and explained in the course of this story. You just gain better insight into the angst right away if you've read WHL already.
> 
> Returning readers: Welcome back! I really hope everyone can enjoy this sequel. It's a bit of a mashup of the two kinds of stories: SotF's angsty bromance and casefic adventures combined with WHL's angsty introspective romance. But in all things, I hope it's fun, sad, happy, insightful, entertaining, and all the other strange mixture of things that this universe allows for.
> 
> As always, reviews are extremely appreciated and I reply to every one of them. Conversing with you readers is my favorite part of being a writer. Now I'll shut up and let you read.

The black cab pulled up to the kerb outside 221B and, as it had a thousand times before, deposited Sherlock and John on the pavement in front of their flat. They were home, a fact which six months ago Sherlock would have embraced with fondness, but which now vaguely bored him. They were  _always_  home these days. "London's become so dull. What happened to all the exciting cases?" he grumbled. They'd just come back from solving a pathetically simple case of accidental lidocaine overdose at an unlicensed orthodontist's office for Lestrade. Which had done nothing at all to quench Sherlock's need for mental stimulation. Quite the opposite, really.

"Dried up a bit the last two years since we don't have an evil mastermind orchestrating people's crimes any more. You ask me, I like that kind of boring," John replied pointedly.

Sherlock sighed in begrudging acknowledgement and headed for the front door, opening it and leading the way inside. They'd been over this before. There was no real point in complaining about the easy cases any more. His body language was enough to convey the message to John. Nor was there a need for Sherlock to look behind him to see John's face to know that it held the familiar gentle look of ' _you ought to be thankful you have any kind of case work'_.

What was worse, it was a difficult point for Sherlock to argue with. Moriarty and Mycroft had sent him into hiding, that was true. But  _he_  had stuck the needle back in his arm, repeatedly and consistently for nearly a year. Him and no one else. And that more than anything was the reason for the caution Lestrade exercised in doling out cases to Sherlock now. And the caution John exercised in almost every dealing he had with Sherlock, to the point where it sometimes became unintentionally patronising. His friends truly cared about his recovery, a fact Sherlock never took for granted. But he hadn't  _actually_  died and come back to life. He wasn't going to disintegrate into dust if they looked away. Occasionally he longed for the days of being overlooked. Of doing his work and ignoring the rest. Because delving into the rest reminded him of how he'd got here in the first place. Reminded him of  _her._ Then he'd find himself wondering what she was doing at the present moment, if she was thinking of him-

But he didn't want to get into all of that. So instead he simply trudged up the stairs, letting the scraping of his feet on the steps express all the frustration with both himself and his situation that he didn't feel like verbalizing.

Yet somehow, John understood Sherlock's mood and what his friend most needed now. Which was to say absolutely nothing more on the subject. The doctor simply clapped his friend on the shoulder once, without even the annoying intrusion of looking him in the eye. It was a moment of understanding that the two men never would have shared prior to Sherlock's death and resurrection. Indeed, it was a reminder that in spite of the hell they had both been through, ultimately their friendship had been strengthened for it.

Then the moment was passed, and John opened the door and led the way inside. Appreciating the brevity of the gesture, Sherlock followed his friend inside.

They entered 221B to find a dishevelled Mary Morstan curled up on the couch, sporting sweats, her dark blonde hair up in a messy bun, and a thick copy of her dissertation in hand while some sort of soft, piano-driven female vocalist music playing on the iPod stereo system. The psychologist glanced up at her flatmates with a smile. "Good evening. How's the case going?"

Sherlock crossed directly to the stereo and turned the music off. "Dinner?" he demanded.

Mary had, in the last six months as his second flatmate, become surprisingly immune to Sherlock's brusque manner. She merely gave John a small, knowing smile and said lightly, "Ah, he's eating, so that must mean you closed it." John smiled back and leaned down to give his fiancée a quick kiss in greeting.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly as he hung his coat up by the door. Then, more insistently, "Dinner?"

"She's not your mother," John chided, heading towards the kitchen himself.

"My mother never made me dinner in her life," Sherlock retorted as he plopped down in his chair and picked his laptop up off the ground. "Though you two have developed a habit of treating me as if I were your child."

"When have we ever done that?" John asked as he set about tossing something frozen in the oven.

Sherlock didn't look up from the laptop. "Complaining about experiments left in the fridge."

"Because we got you your own mini-fridge," John interrupted.

But Sherlock kept on talking. "Berating me for quarrelling with Mycroft, even though he's never invited and stops over anyway."

Mary looked up from her work, instantly leaning forward in her attentive, therapist mode. Sherlock's cheek muscles twitched slightly in reaction. He'd had enough of therapy in his private rehab. And Mary already slipped into that role frequently enough as it was; who knew how annoying it would become once she was officially granted her PhD in Child Psychology in a few months. Then she'd feel even more entitled to treat him like a child in need of analysis. "We don't like having him drop round any more than you. But isn't it worth tolerating him to be able to keep your job?" she asked.

Sherlock hated being reminded of the fact that he owed Mycroft of all people for his official standing with the Yard without the official obligations of being a DI. Technically he was a Special Investigator for the Crown, though he distanced himself from that title as much as possible. He did his work, John wrote a half-arsed report and turned it in. In a way, it was very much like being an actual police detective. But as it gave them the chance to work with the Yard, even Sherlock wasn't churlish enough to complain about it. Usually.

Sherlock pounded the keyboard harder, pulling up his e-mail, and purposefully ignored Mary's question as he continued making his case. "And then there's the way you two make up elaborate excuses to both conveniently wind up in your room in the evenings instead of just saying you're going to have sex and leaving."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for the last time, John, I don't know why you still believe I'm frightened of sex." In fact, he'd mentioned to John that he'd lost his virginity while in hiding, though he certainly hadn't mentioned with whom. John had kept what little he did know to himself, it seemed, based on the fact that Mary had yet to try to psychoanalyse Sherlock about it. So well, in fact, that Sherlock thought John sometimes forgot that his friend was not as naive as he'd once been. But as the detective shot him a pointed look, the doctor seemed to remember, clamping his mouth shut just as he was about to make some retort. John cleared his throat and looked away, and Sherlock's eyes went back to his computer.

John and Mary started talking about God knew what. Sherlock had already tuned out what was sure to be their usual banal couple's chatter. No, it wasn't only that it was boring, Sherlock had to confess, even if only to himself, that he wasn't annoyed by their interaction solely because of its banal subject matter. There was an understanding between those two which Sherlock might have missed in years past, but which he now recognized as a comfortable intimacy. On rare occasions, it called to mind certain mostly painful memories of his time away, of intimate and revelatory moments that he had never confessed to anyone, not even in his confidential drug rehab.

Oh, he'd related bits of the story; Dr. Sayers was annoyingly far too good to fool entirely. Sherlock had told him about a "friend" of his whom he had coerced into using her flat as a spot to shoot up under the guise of it being safer than being high on the streets. He knew Dr. Sayers had intuited that this person was more than a friend, but Sherlock had always shut down that line of questioning full stop. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that anything he said in therapy would be out of Mycroft's reach. His brother had had no trouble getting John's therapist's notes, after all.

Of course, Sherlock had also become irritated by Dr. Sayers' attempts to convince him of his "friend's" culpability in his relapse, and that she might have at least unwittingly driven him to greater drug abuse. That was a narrative Sherlock could not accept. He alone was responsible for his actions, and he'd stepped into relapse knowing full well where it would lead him. She might not have stopped him, but that hardly made it her fault nor did it necessarily make her a bad influence on him, no matter what the shrink said. It was the one area in which they'd never made much progress. Sherlock refused to think back to those painful moments, to her flat in Tel Aviv and everything that had transpired there. Instead he preferred to occasionally reflect on the much more pleasant time they'd spent together on the night he'd left for London, at that hotel overlooking the Mediterranean. Her sympathetic eyes, her surprisingly gentle touch, the comforting feel of her body entwined with his. He remembered the startling, somewhat frightening psychological closeness as much as the physical connection...

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, trying to force those thoughts away. John and Mary's intimacy had sparked these irritating reflections more and more frequently of late. Sherlock wondered at the reasoning behind that. The text messages between himself and his "friend" had neither increased nor decreased in frequency, but there were other contributing factors. An overall sense of cabin fever and boredom, for one. Since he'd returned from the dead, he and John had fortunately had a steady flow of cases both private and for the Yard, but many had been dull and none had taken them out of the country. Which was again partly Sayers' fault, since he insisted that Sherlock be clean and sober at least three months before considering travel. Something about a change of routine and the temptation of being on the road again. The Yard had forced another three months of frequent random drug testing on him, which they couldn't do if he was overseas. So he'd effectively been tied down to London for half a year, something he certainly hadn't anticipated when he'd parted ways with his much-more-than-friend.

But the worst part of his isolation was not, as he let John believe, a lack of interesting casework. Rather, it was the fact that he couldn't leave the UK and  _she_ couldn't come to the UK. For six months, there'd been nothing but text messages. He hadn't even wanted to risk calling her. If Mycroft's people happened to listen in... well, it simply wasn't worth the risks. The text messages were always promptly deleted and vague enough to maintain secrecy. Actually Sherlock was fairly certain Mycroft was actually leaving his phone alone, a small penance for the massive intrusion of privacy he'd committed by giving Moriarty (and consequently, the world) so many private details of Sherlock's life. Still, Sherlock hated talking on the phone, and had long since decided to save the talking for a time when it could be done in person. And just last week he'd finally passed his last random drug screening, untethering him at last.

Hence why Sherlock was now scouring his e-mails for a good overseas case. Something interesting, high profile enough that it would make sense for him to take it, but not so urgent that he'd be utterly bogged down in the work (as much as it felt nearly sacrilegious to put his work second. Sherlock decided not to dwell on the reasons behind this warped sense of priorities). Preferably it would be in the Mediterranean region. Easier and safer access for her. Side benefit of a pleasant climate.

Sherlock had been reading and deleting e-mail after e-mail for a good fifteen minutes before he froze, his eyes darting back to the top of the message he'd stopped on to re-read it. A feeling not unlike the joy of making a break in a big case fired through the synapses in his brain. Inwardly, he was buzzing with sudden innervation and the urge to leap from his chair and clap his hands with the excitement he normally displayed when hit by such a mental rush. Outwardly, he had been keeping this particular area of his life secret for long enough now that he was practised at maintaining utter calm.

Besides which, there was still her end of things to consider. Best not to get ahead of himself. Sherlock quickly pulled his mobile from his pocket and started typing the +972 number he had entered many times before but never saved or wrote down anywhere. He fired off a text. « _Can you get to Florence?»_

As soon as the message went through, he deleted it, as was his custom for any correspondence to or from that number. Sherlock shifted in his seat but remained otherwise placid. He noticed John and Mary had turned on the evening news and were sitting on the couch with plates of lasagne. He frowned, wondering exactly when that had happened. "Did you get me a plate?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at him blankly. "I asked if you wanted one five minutes ago when it got out of the oven. You didn't say anything."

"I was working," Sherlock countered with a half-hearted scowl.

"If you're hungry get yourself a plate," John replied lightly, taking a bite of his own lasagne.

"I'm not  _that_ hungry," Sherlock muttered, sinking back into his chair and looking back down at his laptop. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the message light on his mobile flash. He'd learned his lesson from the past and had set text notifications from unknown numbers to silent. He'd kept the silent flashing light as the notice for emails as well, so as not to mark out such texts as something out of the ordinary, either. John might never notice, but Mycroft probably would . Sherlock forced himself to pick the phone up and flick through the message as nonchalantly as possible, though his heart rate jumped when he read, « _Yes. When?»_

Sherlock deleted the message and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He steepled his hands together and pressed them to his lips, partly to keep his mouth from involuntarily forming into a smile. It helped, and the detective was able to force a casual air as he told John, "We're going to Florence tomorrow."

John stopped with his fork midway to his mouth, looking sideways at an equally surprised Mary for what looked like confirmation that he hadn't misheard their flatmate. "For a case, you mean."

"If Mum and Dad will allow it," Sherlock drawled in irritation, sitting up now and giving John a pointed look. "Lestrade did say I was cleared to leave the UK."

John set his fork down and shifted, obviously looking for the best response. "No, I know he did. And you've earned it," John said, clearly trying to be extra amenable now to counter Sherlock's earlier complaint. That bit of cultivated guilt was working out, then, Sherlock thought as John replied more affably, "It just surprised me is all. You hadn't mentioned anything about it before."

"Because I've only just received an e-mail about it," Sherlock said as he typed away on his laptop, not bothering to look up. He knew he had John in a tight spot now, one where he'd have to agree to Sherlock's plans in order to show how at ease he was with the whole thing, to prove just how deeply he trusted his emotionally distant, drug addict of a best friend. Guilt could be an extremely useful emotion. So he proceeded frankly, "I'm arranging to fly out in the morning."

Mary's tone was sharp and surprised as she asked, "Isn't it a bit expensive getting a flight on such short notice?"

Sherlock detected the movement of John reaching over to place one of his hands on one of Mary's, a polite way of telling her it was all right and that they ought not to react too strongly. Once again, very much like parents deciding how to deal with a difficult child, Sherlock thought. "The client is more than willing to pay it. The case will most likely be very high profile once it breaks and they're quite motivated to settle things soon. Before it becomes public knowledge, if possible," Sherlock replied, still without looking up.

"What kind of case?" John asked cautiously.

"Kidnapping."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mary tense slightly. That particular sort of crime always sparked a bit of a reaction in her, given that she'd been through it herself. Her tone was one of deep concern as she asked, "Who's been kidnapped? Are they sure that's something that can even wait until tomorrow?"

"Oh, I should think the victim will be safe enough," Sherlock replied cheerfully, finally looking up as he closed the lid of his laptop and set it on the ground. "It's Galileo."

John and Mary exchanged confused glances. "Galileo," John replied in flat disbelief. "As in  _the_ Galileo."

"The physicist, yes," Sherlock confirmed.

"And astronomer," John pointed out.

"Who cares," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.

" _Most_ people," John countered, sitting forward on the couch and getting that particular gob-smacked John Watson look on his face that always either meant 'Sherlock, you're a genius' or 'Sherlock, you're an idiot'. And the detective was getting the sneaking suspicion that right now it meant the latter. John continued, his voice elevated, "That's what he's known for. He was ostracised by the church for insisting that the earth goes around the sun."

Sherlock paused. Something in John's tone and the expectant way his friend was eyeing him led Sherlock to believe he was trying to remind him of a previous conversation they'd had on this subject. It did sound vaguely familiar. Sherlock gave his friend a sidelong look as he guessed at the response John was looking for. "Which... it does?" Sherlock ventured a guess.

John made a sound between a growl and a whine as he ran his hands furiously through his short hair. " _How_ many times have we gone over this? Yes, the earth moves around the bloody sun." John seemed unable to restrain himself from ramming this point home, even as Sherlock sighed and gave a dismissive roll of his eyes. John sat forward on the edge of the couch now as he continued, "Galileo's got that famous quote, 'The Bible shows the way to go to heaven, not the way the heavens go'. Because at the time they all assumed the earth must be the centre of the solar system – or the universe, really – because obviously it was God's most important creation. Everything must revolve around it," he said, giving Sherlock a pointed glance.

The detective let out a long sigh of irritation. He may not care about astronomy, but he was not so foolish that John's point escaped him. It just  _bored_  him. "Well I certainly didn't think we were at the centre of our solar system because the  _Bible_ told me so," Sherlock replied grumpily.

"Hold on," Mary cut in, her eyes widening as she took in the exchange, "are you serious?" She looked Sherlock over and evidently decided from his demeanour that he was. Her jaw went slightly slack. "How is it possible for you not to know that? For anyone not to know that, really, but...  _you_ of all people, Sherlock?"

"Don't," John said with a shake of his head. "Trust me, it will only make it worse if you start examining how ridiculous it is. Let's just..." he let out the sort of long breath he used to calm himself down.

But they'd opened up this line of discussion now. Sherlock wasn't going to let John get the last word. He'd at least explain himself to Mary. "There are certain areas of knowledge that have no bearing on my work, and I make no room in my mind for them. If I want to go on thinking of the earth, the moon, or Saturn as the centre of our solar system, I will. Both my work and life will remain unaffected either way. I work and make my observations on this planet alone," Sherlock said. "I'm sure it's useful information for astronomers, but why it matters to anyone else is beyond me."

"Well, I don't know about that," Mary countered, in spite of John's warnings. Her tone was becoming dangerously philosophical. "I think it matters because sometimes we need perspective. To be reminded that every single star out there in the sky is a sun like ours with planets orbiting it, just like ours. In the grand scheme of things, we're tiny. Basically nothing. It's humbling. That's the sort of paradigm shift that affects how you view the world and your own life. It certainly lent some perspective to many scientists during the Enlightenment, after Galileo's death."

Sherlock considered that a long moment. Mary and John both seemed to eagerly await his response. Finally, he replied, "No, his physics are still far more interesting and applicable."

John sighed and gave Mary a pointed look as if to say 'I told you so'. Thankfully, she gave up the subject, and John quickly switched gears to avoid falling back into that quagmire. "Explain to me how someone who's been dead nearly 400 years gets kidnapped."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, picking his laptop up off the ground and resuming his earlier work. "Someone broke into Santa Croce, the church where he's buried, during the night, opened his tomb, and absconded with his body. The priests discovered it this morning and covered the tomb under the guise of art restoration, but I doubt they'll be able to keep it quiet for long. They received a ransom note in the afternoon and contacted me via e-mail. The Italian authorities are ostensibly looking into it, but the church doesn't seem to fully trust them. Who would?" Sherlock noted blithely as he clicked to confirm their flights and hotel.

"Well, that definitely meets the qualification of being an interesting case," John conceded. He looked to Mary. "I feel a bit bad leaving you here on such short notice. Especially when you're so close to finishing your dissertation."

"Bring her along," Sherlock said without hesitation. He tried to make it sound like a friendly spur of the moment suggestion rather than a calculated strategy. He knew there was no way for him to get to the continent on his own without arousing John's suspicions and recent hyperactive state of concern. If instead he could ensure that his friend would be too preoccupied in their down time to bother with where Sherlock was sneaking off to spend his own free time, the detective was certain he could manage both the case and his private business without John being any the wiser.

John and Mary both looked surprised by the suggestion. John wavered. "I don't know. Like I said, her dissertation-"

"She's  _proofreading._ Surely that can be done anywhere. And when she finishes, you'll already be in an ideal location to celebrate," Sherlock reasoned. He could already see by the look in their eyes that this idea appealed to both of them, so he kept going. "The case won't take up all of your time. You've been just as tied to London as I have, and Mary's been working very hard on her dissertation these past six months. She's nearly done. You both deserve a holiday."

John looked at his friend like he'd grown a couple extra heads. "That's... very thoughtful of you," John said, sounding more confused than honoured. "But it sounds like you're saying I ought to spend our down time alone with Mary. Which would be great, don't get me wrong," John conceded, exchanging a glinting look with his fiancée. He looked back at his friend. "But if that's the case, what are you going to do?"

"John, it's Florence. The heart of the Renaissance, filled with museums, fantastic architecture, and all manner of interesting historical sites. Plus I have contacts at the University there. I think I'll manage to fill my free time," Sherlock pointed out. He watched John and Mary's reactions carefully, noting the way Mary's eyebrows drew together hopefully, and how John's eyes blinked with the realization that what Sherlock was saying made perfect sense. Of course it did. It was designed to. He'd had months to think over how exactly he ought to approach such an opportunity when the situation arose. He'd devised sound reasoning for a variety of different cities he might eventually take a case in. Florence was among the best candidates, and a real stroke of luck. Mary gave her fiancé a small nod and the detective smiled inwardly. He knew he'd won them over.

"Then yeah. That sounds fantastic," John said, unable to contain a full-fledged grin now.

"Good. Because I already booked flights and accommodations for all of us," Sherlock replied, setting his laptop down once again. He watched John and Mary's idiotic smiles grow, followed by them sharing a spontaneous, enthusiastic kiss. Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes at the display, in spite of how undignified it all seemed. Surely there were better ways to show one's affection and sentiments without making yourself look moronic in the process. But the couple's excitement did at least serve to distract them from Sherlock pulling out his phone and texting that same, well-used number. « _Flight tomorrow morning. Working a case. Convinced Mary to come along to distract John in our free time.»_

Sherlock sent then deleted the text, remaining entirely passive outwardly, even while something deep inside his brain twittered with an unnameable energy. He pushed aside the notion of any correlation between his own, still rather foreign sentiments and the sort of energetic display going on between John and Mary now as they discussed all the things they could see and do in Florence. No, Sherlock was patient and calm and completely in control of his dignity. He'd given up far too much of that in the past to take it for granted these days.

When his text alert flashed and he calmly read the response, Sherlock prided himself on the fact that only one corner of his mouth ticked upwards in a smile. But he did indulge in staring at the screen a few moments. For all that Mary talked of perspective and feeling small in the universe, merely dragged along on one of a billion rocks around a billion suns, at this moment Sherlock couldn't help but feel quite the opposite. Because, in a way, if Galileo had never made a fuss about the earth and the sun, no one would have cared enough to kidnap him 400 years after his death. And certainly no one in the church would then have cared enough to think this a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes. And then Sherlock would never have been here now, with a plane ticket to Florence and a hotel in his name for the following evening as the bright screen of his mobile burned with the single most lovely word in the universe: « _Dinner?»_

For just a moment, the notion of all the planets being pulled around and then flung back off into space by the bright, burning, glorious sun  _did_ actually make sense. But then he thought, who was to say who orbited whom? Wasn't it merely a matter of perspective? Either way, Sherlock's heart rate most certainly did not stay within his own control as he texted back, « _Precisely my thought.»_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't post this earlier! I thought I posted it a few days ago but it didn't go through! Well, I'll post the next chapter for you today or tomorrow then. This one's a little plotty but that one is delectable.

In spite of twice travelling to Italy, John had never been to Florence before. It had taken all of about an hour there for him to consider this a grave mistake. This was nothing like the bustling, loud, surprisingly modern urban setting of Rome. Nor was it the claustrophobic, tourist-infested, nearly drowning little town of Venice. Instead it seemed indeed as Sherlock had described it - a tribute to the Renaissance all wrapped up in one city. In the old city centre, where their hotel was located, there were hardly any cars due to an extremely restricted permitting system. Instead, people strolled down narrow streets at a leisurely pace, taking in the quiet city. John was very glad Sherlock had invited Mary along. He could hardly wait to explore with her.

But just at the moment, there was work to do. They'd stopped by the Hotel Savoy just long enough to drop off their bags and leave Mary alone to work in the beautiful two-bedroom suite they were sharing with Sherlock. (John surmised that the church must really be concerned about this 'kidnapping' to shell out that kind of money. But then, famous Renaissance thinker stolen from his grave... fair enough, that probably rated pretty high). Sherlock and John had set out on the short walk to Santa Croce.

As they emerged into the long piazza in front of the sun-bathed, gleaming white marble-front church, John shook his head in amazement. "Beautiful," he marvelled. When Sherlock said nothing, John glanced over at his friend. Incredibly, the detective was looking down at his phone. "Boy social networking's really done a number on people's ability to appreciate what's in front of them. Update your Twitter later."

Sherlock immediately slid his phone back in his pocket. "I don't have a  _Twitter,"_ Sherlock retorted, his nose scrunching up in disgust. "A blog where one can detail scientific experiments is something else entirely."

"I know, that was a joke," John said with a grin. "Lighten up. You've been tense and jittery all morning. Hardly the way to go into a case, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked mildly surprised at the observation, and for a moment even slightly worried. Then the look was gone and the detective leaned his head back to take in the church as they walked up its front steps. "It's a Franciscan Basilica, hence much more simple architectural features than, say, Brunelleschi's work on the Duomo, which was completed about the same time. Its façade is a 19th century addition but retains the austerity of the Franciscan order. Notice anything unusual about it?"

John scanned up the full height of the building, his eyes coming to rest at the apex. His brow furrowed. "Is that the Star of David?"

Sherlock smiled a bit, always pleased when John correctly observed something. "The architect of the façade was Jewish and felt paying homage to Christianity's roots was appropriate. Unfortunately as a Jew he couldn't be buried with the others inside. He's somewhere under the porch."

"At least there's less chance of him being kidnapped there," John replied brightly.

"Evidently," Sherlock said in the same good-humoured tone. He led the way inside, to a long hall that was in fact rather plain in spite of the Gothic arches along the sides. A few sightseers quietly walked along the perimeter of the nave, but the basilica was largely empty this early in the morning.

"I could see monks living here. Is that who we're meeting?" John asked.

"It no longer functions as a Franciscan friary. We're meeting a representative from the Archdioceses," Sherlock said. Then he nodded in the direction of a tall, slender 50-something year old priest will still-dark hair who was making his way towards them. "Sei Padro Giordano?" Sherlock asked.

"Sì, benvenuto signori Holmes e Watson. Si parla italiano?" the priest inquired with a gentle, slow voice as he held out a hand first to Sherlock, then to John. It was much different than the sort of boisterous interaction John had previously had with many young Italians in Rome.

"Only a little," Sherlock responded, and John could hear the insistent, clipped 'work' tone already in Sherlock's voice. Not leaving space for a response from the priest, Sherlock immediately headed directly to their left, towards scaffolding and a drape covering what must be Galileo's tomb.

"Signore," Father Giordano called hesitantly as Sherlock unceremoniously pulled the drape off the scaffolding. "Would you not like to discuss the ransom note first?" the priest eyed the now-exposed tomb anxiously, glancing around to ensure that no one else was nearby. Sherlock's eyes remained on the tomb, scanning it, the ground around it, deciphering who knew what.

John was far too used to this sort of rudeness to flinch at it, and instead turned his attention to the beautiful tomb, which was really more aptly called a monument. It consisted of a black and gold marble tomb, flanked on either side by female statues representing geometry and astronomy. A skyward-gazing bust of Galileo himself sat at the top. The whole thing was on a marble pedestal about a metre off the ground. Which Sherlock now hoisted himself up onto for a closer look. Father Giordano looked to be painfully holding his breath as he watched this display in horror.

"I've read the ransom note over," Sherlock replied as he ran his fingers along the edges of the marble slab resting on top of the sarcophagus itself. "Five million Euro by the end of the week or they destroy the body."

"We simply cannot afford that amount," Father Giordano explained earnestly.

"Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me," Sherlock replied flatly, crouching down to eyeball the edge of the sarcophagus lid more closely. As he did, he asked casually, "Did the police have an idea as to how the body was transported out of here?"

Father Giordano shifted. "They did not know. It would have to be protected in a container. So we hope. Then put in a car."

"Which narrows the field of suspects considerably," Sherlock mused, eyes still on his work.

"Does it?" John asked, not sure what he meant.

"We're in Florence's Zona Traffico Limitato - ZTL. Vehicular access is extremely limited. You need a permit and every car entering or exiting the zone is photographed. Hardly a good way to remain inconspicuous," Sherlock pointed out, and John had to agree.

"So you think if we got a look at those records, we'd be able to get a list of suspects to start with?" John asked.

"That would hardly be efficient," Sherlock replied. "Especially as I highly doubt they'd be in one of those cars."

John folded his arms across his chest, trying to think through that one. He could see that Father Giordano was attempting to follow along as well. This was, John knew, precisely the sort of attention Sherlock desired from his vague, drawn-out explanations. John humored him, "Okay. But the body would have been in a large box or crate. How else did they get it out of here?"

"The way most bodies get transported about town: by ambulance, I suspect," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He glanced over at John and the priest, both of whom were mulling that over. "Think about it. Ambulances don't need permits to be in the ZTL. They're photographed entering and exiting, but they do that all day and night long so it's not suspicious. There's ample space in the back for the body and equipment. It's certainly how I'd do it if I had even half my brain, which presumably two grown men put together could manage if they really tried."

John rolled his eyes at that, but Sherlock had already turned back to the tomb and didn't notice. Still, arrogance aside, as usual Sherlock's theory made sense. "So we tell the police to look for ambulances coming and going in the old city the night of the break-in."

"We have them give  _us_ the footage and  _we_ look through it," Sherlock corrected.

"Right," John said, not entirely sure that was going to happen. Instead of pressing his friend on the point, though, he focused on what Sherlock was looking so closely at on the tomb. Even from here, John could see a rough cut in the marble all the way around the edge where the lid attached. "So was that thing sealed, or...?" he asked, either of Sherlock or Father Giordano.

"Yes, and the marble had not been moved since placed there in 1737 when Galileo was moved to this tomb," Father Giordano explained, wringing his hands slowly in anxiety as he watched Sherlock climb around on the priceless artwork. "The priest who opens the basilica in the mornings found the lid on the ground and the tomb empty."

John bit back an empty tomb joke that was on the tip of his tongue. That probably wouldn't have gone over very well. Sherlock finally looked away from the sarcophagus, narrowing his eyes in thought as he glanced down at Father Giordano. "They broke in through a steel-chained door," he stated.

"Sì, yes," the priest stammered. "How did you know that? We had not mentioned-"

"These cuts," Sherlock pointed to the jagged, vicious cuts in the marble, "were made by a carbide-tipped circular saw blade. The sort of thing meant for cutting steel, but far too strong for something as soft as marble. Made a mess of things. Whomever did this certainly didn't know much about sculpture. Then you see here and here," Sherlock pointed to a little chipped area on either end of the top of the sarcophagus.

John stepped forward to look closely at each of the three-centimetre, two-pronged jagged chips in the marble. "Crowbars?" he ventured.

"Two of them, since you'd need more than one person to lift a lid that heavy and set it on the ground, rather than tossing it down and breaking it." Sherlock pulled out some tweezers and a few small evidence bags. He began collecting tiny flecks of something from both the crowbar indentations and along the jagged cut around the edge of the lid.

Meanwhile, several onlookers had started whispering and looking over in their direction. John noted that Father Giordano's hand-wringing was getting more pronounced. The priest walked over to the onlookers and said something in Italian, then returned, glancing up at Sherlock even more anxiously now. "Signore, if you wouldn't mind coming down from there...?"

Sherlock hummed absently, a noise John was all too familiar with, and one that meant he would comply in his own time frame. Sherlock carefully eyeballed the flecks he'd collected into his evidence bags. Finally, he slipped them into his pocket before hopping off the pedestal and onto the floor with a  _thud!_ that echoed in the large marble building. Father Giordano winced, but John was far too accustomed to Sherlock to be at all surprised at his crawling all over then leaping off of priceless tombs at his leisure.

Instead, he was more interested in whatever evidence Sherlock had collected. This was always the part of crime-solving where John had to rely entirely on Sherlock's encyclopedic knowledge of various materials. Though he felt he'd gotten quite good at evaluating motives, people who were lying, and even the methodology of some crimes, John knew he'd never be able to get anywhere close to Sherlock in the area of trivial knowledge. Not only was Sherlock a genius, he'd spent the better part of his 37 years experimenting with and studying a staggering array of chemicals, materials, insects, poisons, body parts, and anything else that would fit in his flat. Who could match that, really. "What's that in the bags, then?" John asked.

"All the evidence we'll need to find the perpetrators," Sherlock replied with a self-satisfied smile.

"Yes?" Father Giordano asked, surprised and a bit confused.

"Well, between this and locating the ambulance, yes. These are paint and plastic flecks. Which not only can be matched to the particular circular saw and crowbars used, but also indicate that the tools were new. Otherwise they wouldn't have deposited nearly this amount of paint. So they've most likely been purchased recently. The crowbars are painted with a yellow coating. The saw has a blue plastic guard. And with a bit of work, we might be able to track them to whomever sold them, and then to the perpetrators."

John shook his head. "Fantastic," he uttered with a smile to himself. Sherlock's eyes darted over to his friend, taking in the praise with his characteristic subtle self-satisfaction. Sherlock had always appreciated John's compliments, but since he'd returned from the dead and then nearly died again of a cocaine-related cardiac arrest, there'd been a bit more warmth to the appreciation. In fact, in general the two friends had grown closer, owing in part to Sherlock's frank confession of John's importance to him and his belief that he couldn't stay clean without his friend working alongside him. It was that, more than any real benefit John provided to the investigations, that made John's part in their partnership vital, he'd come to realise. John wasn't about to complain about the job.

Sherlock, as usual, was wasting no time. He was already making his way for the front door, John falling naturally in step just behind him.

Father Giordano trailed after them, calling, "Is that everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied definitively, without turning around.

"The police asked many questions, interviewed witnesses..." the priest trailed off.

"The police cast a wide net because they don't know what they were looking for," Sherlock paused at the front door, glancing back over his shoulder at the priest. "So it's a good thing you called me. Addio," Sherlock said with a chipper smile as he pushed his way out the front door.

As they entered the piazza, John grinned inwardly at the extra bounce in Sherlock's long strides. The detective fastened one button of his suit jacket, glancing around nonchalantly. John let out a chortle. "What?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Is that your cool gesture for climates where you don't have your coat-collar, then?" John asked.

Sherlock's hand dropped from his button, and he turned his head to face forward. "I don't know what you mean," he said, indignantly. John smiled to himself, but kept quiet as they headed in the direction of the police station.

* * *

"What do you mean he won't see me?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded.

The police station clerk, a woman of about 22, looked mildly frightened in the face of his intensity.  _Which Sherlock probably thinks is useful,_ John thought with an inward sigh. He'd seen his friend deploy this tactic many times. The more fearful this clerk was, the quicker she'd get them past the red tape that Sherlock so detested. "You don't have an appointment, and I don't know who you are," she replied, her English spotty but sufficient enough to clearly know what he was saying.

"You did hear the part where I've been hired  _by the Vatican_ to look into this matter? I should think you know who  _they_ are," Sherlock spat. John could see his friend's face reddening in anger, and immediately placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to pull him back from the counter just slightly. The doctor kept quiet, but gave his friend a reproachful look.

Then, from a door behind the counter, a long-suffering sigh could be heard. "Ah marone!" a gruff voice exclaimed. A second later, a 40-something detective with oily black hair and a face like a basset hound emerged, walking up to the desk. "What do you want?"

"Detective Rinaldi," John jumped in, ignoring Sherlock's look of annoyance. John had got in the habit of sometimes taking it upon himself to 'break the ice' when Sherlock was being too candid with someone they needed cooperation from. That, at least, was a part of investigations he was useful for. The doctor continued politely, "Sorry to bother you, but this is Sherlock Holmes and I'm John Watson. I don't know if the church told you, but we were hired to look into the Galileo case at Santa Croce."

"Private detectives," Rinaldi replied with a look of utter exasperation. "And?"

"I presume you've been checking the ZTL entrance and exit footage for cars that were in sectors A or B on the night of the crime," Sherlock said in a slightly condescending tone.

"We know our jobs, yes," Detective Rinaldi countered.

"What you really ought to have been looking for are ambulances," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "It's unlikely the perpetrators would use their own car, if they even have a ZTL permit. An ambulance is the most logical mode of transport, which of course implies that at least one of them is a paramed-"

"Yes, thank you. A good idea," Rinaldi said with a wave, beginning to turn around.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked sharply. John gritted his teeth, bracing for the worst, and tightening his grip on his friend's arm lest Sherlock decide to pounce. Rinaldi had stopped and turned back around to gape at the outlandish Englishman. "I need to see that footage. I may very well be able to track the perpetrators to their hideout."

Now Rinaldi stepped forward, toe to toe with Sherlock, and not the least bit intimidated by the slightly taller man. The Italian simply stared back with hard black eyes contrasting against his droopy face. "You are not a member of this police force. I do not know how they do things in England, but we do not let private detectives run our cases."

John could feel Sherlock's muscles tensing beneath his hand, clearly ready to respond to such indignity. Warning bells went off in the doctor's mind, and he put his other hand on Sherlock's chest, pushing him back slightly in the direction of the door. Surprised, Sherlock turned his ire away from Rinaldi and onto his friend, just as John had hoped he would. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me, we need to see that footage!" he growled as John walked him backwards out the front door of the station and into the street.

Once outside, John let go of Sherlock, but maintained his position between his friend and the door. He held up his hands in a gesture of truce. "I know you're pissed off, but if you go back in there, you're only going to make things worse. This isn't Scotland Yard. You don't have Lestrade and you aren't an investigator for the government here. As irritating as it is, they're not going to give you the footage, at least not right now. But if you piss them off they might not help you down the road at all."

"Imbeciles," Sherlock muttered, though he seemed to have calmed down a bit. "I'll get that footage eventually."

"Maybe," John agreed. "What about those paint chips? If you can really trace those back to the saw and crowbars and whoever bought them, that would be brilliant. Who needs the police, right?" He was doing his very best to portray this in a positive light that even Sherlock could appreciate.

That got a sigh and a nod of concession from Sherlock. John was relieved. It seemed that even Sherlock's notoriously moody nature was smoothed over by the warm Italian sun and the peaceful surroundings of Florence. Seriously,  _how_ had John not come here on holiday before?

After a few moments, Sherlock pulled his phone out and began walking down the street. John followed.

"Again with the phone obsession," John teased.

This time Sherlock didn't rise to the bait, simply saying, "I need to find a lab where I can examine the paint and plastic. I have a contact at the university." He paused a moment, then added off-handedly, "This might be a good opportunity for you to spend some time with Mary. Take in the sights."

"Trying to get rid of me?" John joked.

It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn Sherlock hesitated momentarily before replying, "No. But you hate watching me look through microscopes. And it will most likely take me much of the day to come to a conclusion. I just thought you'd rather spend that time with your fiancée. It is why she came with us, after all."

Once again, John was surprised and touched by Sherlock's consideration. It was the sort of thing he'd never have expected from his friend prior to the whole faked suicide ordeal. "I would, thank you." He paused. "Was this outpouring of kindness brought on by anything in particular? Because I'd love to find the source, bottle it, and use it later," John teased.

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Everyone deserves a holiday now and again," he said, and actually turned his face slightly up to the sun. John decided that, yes, Florence was definitely having a positive effect on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

« _John and Mary heading out for afternoon. Meet at St. Regis Hotel, noon.»_ read the text Sherlock had sent Irene as he and John left the police station. He knew the lab work he needed to do wouldn't take him more than a few hours, but there was no way for John to know that. It seemed the perfect opportunity to see Irene, and somehow seeing her first and doing the work second felt like the natural order of things, in spite how odd that ought to have been to Sherlock.

Irene's reply came quickly. « _Straight to the hotel? My, my, we are presumptuous, aren't we?»_

Sherlock knew she was just trying to rile him, but that didn't stop it from working. She'd always had the peculiar and singular ability to unsettle him with just a few chosen words or a glance. His sexual attraction to her, though he'd long ago accepted it as fact, still unnerved him. In spite of a year's worth of interaction while he was in hiding, they'd only consummated the relationship (if one could call it that) just before he'd left to return to London. And in spite of six months of largely playful messaging, the onus of what  _most_ of his time with her had been spent doing weighed heavily on Sherlock's mind.

How could he simply forget that what 'spending time with her' over that year had mostly meant was that he'd been paying her to mind him as he injected himself with increasing quantities of cocaine? Of course, he knew now that she'd been in agony the whole time. That she had no idea he was desperately hoping for her to care enough to stop him. They'd reconciled all of that. But that did nothing to erase what had transpired, particularly the deeply hidden insecurities and fears he'd inadvertently laid bare to her in his drug-addled, emotionally vulnerable state. When Sherlock thought of how much Irene knew of his sentiments - towards her, the drugs, his whole situation in life - he felt uncomfortably exposed. When in possession of all his faculties, Sherlock would never have revealed even a fraction of what he inadvertently had to Irene.

Of course, that experience may have led to him in turn willingly revealing a fractional amount of his emotions to John. But the doctor had no idea that this gesture of friendship had only been made possible by Sherlock's then-recent soul-eviscerating experiences with Irene. John didn't even know the Woman was alive. And of course it must remain that way.

But what, in the sober light of day, would Sherlock and Irene have to say to one another? How precisely would he feel facing a woman to whom he had been so exposed in every possible manner? It was one thing to text with her flirtatiously, or even to scrape the surface of how his rehab had been proceeding. But the medium had restricted them. They'd spoken once on the phone, six months ago. It had somehow gone on for hours. But the rest of their communication had been snippets of text. It was difficult to determine sentiment from texts. And this was one area in which, infuriatingly, Sherlock had absolutely no data or previous anecdotal evidence from which to speculate.

It was with all of these warring thoughts and, to his annoyance,  _sentiments_ running through his mind that Sherlock fell into silence on their walk back to the hotel. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was 11:30. Only half an hour. His heart rate ticked up slightly, and he pushed aside the nagging question of whether that was out of desire or fear. He simply breathed deeply, grateful that John was too taken in by the sights around them to pay any attention to his friend's state.

By the time they reached the door of their suite, Sherlock had managed to get his heart rate back down and was slowly but surely working on calming his mind as well. As John opened the door and led the way inside, Sherlock felt grateful to be back in a place where he could collect himself before heading out.

The grand living room and kitchen of the suite were both larger and much more finely decorated than what they had at 221B. It was all whites and warm cream colours, fine silk cloth and marble tiles. It was costing the church a fair amount to keep them here, what with this one-bedroom suite and the attached deluxe room that Sherlock had taken. But, really, if he was going to sell the notion of this being a holiday for John and Mary, why not make it a nice one?

"Good mor- ah, nearly noon?" Mary said brightly, setting her papers down and getting up from the couch she had been lounging on to give John a kiss. "How was the crime scene? I take it no signs of a struggle from the kidnapping victim," she said with a crooked grin.

John smiled back. "Not quite. But Sherlock's already gathered some clues to help identify the tools the 'kidnappers' used to break into the church and the tomb. Apparently something he can trace."

"Once I've spent some time in a lab," Sherlock affirmed.

"How's your work been? Get a lot done?" John asked Mary, clearly hoping for the answer he wanted.

"A fair bit, yes," Mary replied. "I went down to a café next door to proofread a while and for some coffee. Somehow I lost my room key and spent a little while proving who I was to the man at the front desk so I could get a new one."

John grinned. "Are you as impressed by this city as I am?"

"It seems lovely, though I haven't really seen much outside the hotel."

"Well," John began slowly. "Sherlock suggested that you and I take the afternoon to go sightseeing while he's working up an analysis of the paint flecks he gathered."

Mary glanced over at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "Did he? Well, you're just full of surprises, aren't you."

Sherlock remained, he thought, admirably calm, even as a prurient part of his brain dwelt on the things he hoped to be doing this afternoon that would  _certainly_ surprise them if they knew about them. "Merely trying to make the most efficient use of time. If you and John go out this afternoon, they'll be less on your list of things to do standing in the way of our case later on when I've identified the suspects."

"Ah, see, a practical purpose. That makes more sense. You had me wondering a bit," John said. To Mary, he asked, "What do you say? Ready for a break?"

Sherlock for his part was already making his way towards the door to his bedroom, not wanting to wait for John and Mary's little social ritual to pass before getting himself ready for his own outing. He only hoped they would get on with it and leave so that he could have a bit of privacy to collect himself and perhaps change his shirt before he went out. Sherlock opened the door to his room.

And froze.

His carefully moderated heart rate doubled in what felt like a second. His eyes widened, his back stiffened, and something deep inside him twisted as he stood frozen, staring at the sight of Irene Adler in a fashionable black dress lying propped up on her side in his bed, a devious smile on her lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's mouth fell open, though he couldn't have said anything if he'd wanted to. Which he certainly didn't, with John and Mary mere feet away in the living area. Still, Irene raised a finger to her lips. Sherlock could barely summon the brainpower to scowl at her, which unfortunately just made her smile grow wider.

"Does that sound good?" Sherlock heard John ask from somewhere behind him, which is when sheer panic set in. The detective whirled around, closing the door firmly behind him, not caring for the moment whether this behaviour seemed odd to John. His heart was thudding hard and his mind was fuzzy with a rush of adrenaline. Fortunately, John tended to ignore most of Sherlock's sudden mood changes, and seemed to take it in stride. He just gave Sherlock a look. "You weren't listening, were you?"

"Sorry," Sherlock managed, though his mouth felt like a wad of cotton wool. "I was thinking... about the paint flecks."

"Course. I should let you get to the lab or your mind palace, whichever's first," John said good-naturedly. "I was just saying we'll probably be back after dinner if that's okay. You did say it might take most of the day..."

Sherlock blinked, his mind spinning to try to remember what 'it' John could be talking about. At first he was worried. Then he recalled his cover story (not to mention the actual lab work he  _did_ have to do at some point). "Yes, fine," Sherlock replied curtly.

"Catch you later, then," John said with a shake of his head at his friend's odd manner, and Mary gave a wave as the two headed out the front door of the suite.

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock exhaled loudly and leaned a shaky hand on the table beside him. At the same time, he could hear the door to his room creak open. He closed his eyes a moment, willing his fight or flight response away. From behind him, he heard Irene's playfully thoughtful voice. "Well, I do appear to have excited you even more than I'd hoped."

Sherlock straightened, wheeling around to stare down at Irene. " _Excited?_ " he hissed. "Terrified. Do you know what would have happened if John had seen you?"

Irene remained her signature combination of cool headed yet warmly suggestive as she replied, "You beckoned me here from Tel Aviv, ordered me to a hotel of your choosing. I couldn't let you have all the fun."

Sherlock swallowed down a lump in his throat that wasn't entirely related to anger. He turned away from Irene, pacing into the kitchen and filling a glass of water in an attempt to steady his nerves. "How did you get in? Mary was here."

Irene leaned against the table casually. "I bumped into her at breakfast. "

Realisation dawned on Sherlock, and he felt slightly better about his faculties even at figuring out something so minuscule. "You pick-pocketed her room key," he noted. He took a drink of water, then set the glass down on the counter. "How long have you been in here?"

"About an hour. I slipped in while she was getting a new key, found your room, and have been admiring the view. It's quite charming," Irene replied. Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at him fondly. "Though it's hardly the city's main attraction at the moment."

Her attention on him should have excited him. And it did, but the longer she stared, the more he remembered that she was familiar with not only his body, but with some very intimate personal details of his life as well. Sherlock looked away from her, down at the glass of water. He was suddenly hit by the memories of all those embarrassingly exposed moments that had happened between them when he was using, which he had earlier been trying to suppress. They had been bad enough at the time, but since he'd had the chance to reflect on them without the drugs clouding his mind, Sherlock had realised more fully how desperate and pathetic he must have seemed to her during that time. How transparent he'd made his loneliness to her, when that was supposed to be something that only occasionally bubbled up in the back of his own mind. Sherlock was surprised by the strength of what he was feeling, and remained still and stoic, unable to look at her, attempting to pull himself together.

But Irene must have been able to read him anyway, because he could hear the playfulness in her voice give way instead to a concerned sincerity as she said, "Sherlock, nothing's changed." She placed her hand over his atop the counter, and at the contact, he was hit with a much different set of memories. Of tender moments, intimacy, and a sort of peace he'd never found in any drugs or even any case. And in a way, those memories were even more foreign, even more difficult for Sherlock to deal with. He felt an overwhelming pull in his chest, like that of an object in space being drawn towards a more massive one by gravity, by the laws of the universe. Inexorable. Undeniable. Permanent. And he recalled, against his will, her accidental near confession of love six months before. Suddenly, he had much larger problems than hormones. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling a bit dizzy and uncomfortable.

A soft, warm hand on his cheek forced his eyes open again. He finally looked down at Irene, who gazed back at him steadily and with an honesty that he'd only ever seen her direct towards him. In spite of his anxiety, he could not help how strongly he was drawn to her. Slowly Sherlock leaned down, closed his eyes, and focused only on the sensation of his lips pressing into hers. She immediately and eagerly began kissing him back. It was then that he recalled his previous realisation that he was much better at expressing these dreaded  _sentiments_ in a physical manner than verbally. How kissing in particular had turned out to be much more intimate and expressive than he'd anticipated. And he felt a bit daft for forgetting, because now that his hands were tangled in Irene's hair and his tongue dipped past her teeth, he wondered how on earth this was something one could forget.

For a while - he couldn't say how long - Sherlock was utterly lost in the kiss. Then as his mind and body adjusted a bit to the mostly foreign sensation, he remembered their situation. Pulling back, he looked down at Irene. "Hold on," he rasped, not entirely convincingly. But in spite of the weak protest, she paused, looking up at him in question, her beautifully flushed cheeks not helping his restraint. Still, Sherlock managed, "We ought to get to the hotel."

"We're in a hotel," Irene pointed out.

"Clever. But you know what I meant," Sherlock replied testily, secretly happy to have found a bit of his regular contrary nature again. "There was a reason I didn't want to meet you here."

"They're out for the day. Florence has more than enough to occupy them," Irene reasoned, and he noticed she now sported darkened eyes to go with her flushed skin. She slid her hands from where they'd landed on Sherlock's arms over to his chest, her fingertips lightly trailing down his buttons. "Besides, do you really think you could hold out long enough to move to another hotel?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, defiantly pushing aside the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and a chill was running all the way down to the base of his spine. "You flatter yourself. I'm not as easily undone as you believe." He didn't mean it to sound like a challenge, but by the mischievous arch of Irene's eyebrow in response, she certainly took it that way.

Before he knew what had happened, Irene had slid Sherlock's closely tailored jacket off his shoulders, down his arms just enough that they were pinned back, preventing him from reaching forward. Which proved a disadvantage when in the next second Irene reached down and unbuckled his belt, practically ripping it from the loops and tossing it aside. As she rapidly untucked his shirt, unbuttoned his tailored pants, and unzipped his fly, it occurred to Sherlock that challenging Irene in a sexual arena had been a gross miscalculation.

Surprised as he was, he at least expected her to pause a moment there, to tease him. Instead, she threw him off again by instantly pulling his trousers and silk boxers down just past his hips, far enough to leave him exposed.

But if he was unready for the feeling of cool air on his skin, Sherlock was utterly, massively unprepared for what followed. Irene gave him a quick devious glance and quirk of her lips, evidently enjoying the deep flush he could feel spreading across his face, then lowered herself gracefully to the marble floor. He parted his lips to ask what she was doing, but when she took him into her mouth, the planned words turned into a sharp hiss followed by a mortifying whimpering moan.

The sudden rush of pleasure that shot through Sherlock's body was almost blinding in intensity. Every muscle tensed at once and he found himself falling backwards against the wall. Was he seizing? He may as well have been seizing. His mind was blank enough, and his heart hammering against his ribcage fast enough to feel like he was. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, white blasts of light dominating his vision. Sherlock's mind and body both felt like they were crashing. It was not unlike his first hit of purified intravenous cocaine. Sherlock felt completely helpless, yet also felt as if he never wanted it to stop.

Evidently, his cardiovascular system didn't entirely agree with remaining in that state perpetually, though, because suddenly he was gasping for air like a man rescued from drowning. His body relaxed slightly, though now he was faced with standing on shaking legs rather than seized ones. He slumped back into the wall and made what he immediately realized was a grave error by looking down at Irene. Her hooded eyes were turned up towards him, and the combination of the sight, sensation, and sound of it all was too much. Sherlock snapped his eyes closed, but couldn't block out the sounds. Nor could he stop the obscene low moan that emanated from the back of his throat, nor the way he squirmed slightly against the wall he was backed into.

He was starting to feel like he was floating. This must be happening to someone else. Yes, perhaps that was a way to think about it. To dissociate himself and attempt to regain his composure and, with any luck, his good sense. This scattered, muddled state wouldn't do. His brain and body were registering more details and sensations than ever, but were alarmingly unable to process them in an organized fashion. This was far more dizzying and out of control than Sherlock's previous sexual experiences with Irene had been. But, then, she'd never done _this_ before. Nor had he ever reacted well in general to being physically restrained as he was now by the coat pinning his arms behind his back. Sherlock closed his mouth, breathing through his nose, even as tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Perhaps if he ran through the periodic table with atomic masses...

Sherlock was only up to Neon, 20.180, and just beginning to think straight when Irene's hand joined her mouth and completely destroyed all his progress. With his eyes closed, Sherlock hadn't seen or anticipated that motion. His lower abdominal muscles and hips jerked, contracting violently and against his will. The pleasurable feeling buzzed through every cell in his body, speeding his breathing to nearly hyperventilating. He was suddenly feeling trapped and anxious, heading for panicked. Sherlock's eyes flew open and now he squirmed frantically, attempting to free his arms from his jacket and out from between him and the wall. It was all far too much to handle. At the edges of his mind, Sherlock could feel the very beginnings of something akin to the unpleasantly out of control sensation of a bad trip.

"Stop," he finally managed to croak out. Then, more forcefully, "Stop that." Somewhat to his surprise, Irene didn't even seem to consider exploiting his weakness to her advantage. Instead she immediately let him go, moving back almost a metre then getting to her feet.

All trace of dominatrix had vanished from Irene's face, and her loose wavy hair helped the softer bearing she took on as she regarded him with concern. Despite the panic she'd induced, Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by her beauty: sharp jawline, the curve of her breasts beneath the svelte black dress, natural blush accenting her prominent cheekbones, keen intelligent eyes with dilated pupils. And he recalled her special room in his mind palace, that hotel in Tel Aviv that he'd visited and revisited many times in the last six months. Suddenly, with Irene before him and the blood rushing audibly in his ears and his arousal quite evident, Sherlock was struck with how very real this was. He took ragged deep breaths as he leaned forward, shrugging his jacket down off his arms. That was better. He was still dizzy, but no longer panicking. Dizzy could be good, he thought. Now he was more buzzed than disoriented.

Irene, who'd been studying him quietly, began carefully, "Sorry. If you don't want to-"

But the suggestion was silenced by Sherlock's lips crashing into hers. A second later, he'd freed himself completely from his jacket and his hands went to her waist. He stepped forward as he hungrily sucked on her bottom lip, not stopping until she'd back-pedalled all the way into the counter. Still he pressed forward more, drawing their bodies close, his erection pressing into her thigh. Sherlock winced slightly in discomfort, pulling back a little and taking a much-needed breath of air. He knew that would be enough of a refutation for her to realise he had no interest in stopping outright. He simply found himself uncomfortable with being so fully out of control.

In fact, something stirred within him, like the flickering tail of a rattlesnake resonating dangerously, as Sherlock contemplated having the upper hand for once. A dark look grew in his eyes. He could remember feeling this way towards Irene only once before, and then he'd been incredibly high and completely unable to repress any of his base instincts. This was different. Though he was moved by hormonal forces not directly in his control, he was still more than aware of and participating in his own actions. In fact he was envisioning all the many ways this might play out, and had very deliberately zeroed in on what he wanted. Sherlock could see it happening in his mind, and his mouth grew dry at the prospect, even as his forehead grew sweaty.

Irene seemed to recognise that something had shifted darkly behind Sherlock's eyes. Her lips parted and she gazed up at him in fascinated anticipation. When he tightened the grip on her waist and lifted her up onto the marble countertop, she remained transfixed. "Getting ambitious, aren't we?" she practically whispered, so as not to break the moment.

"Hardly," he rumbled in return. There was a dark glint in her eyes; she clearly realised instantly from the ease with which he'd picked her up that not only was he taking charge while clear-headed, he was also physically in much better shape than when they'd previously had sex. Which was precisely what Sherlock wanted her to note. He was no longer ravaged by drugs, exhaustion, or injury. In fact, he'd taken up some of his old fencing and boxing practices as part of his drug rehab, a natural way to get his heart rate and endorphins up. Surely Dr. Sayers would approve of a different sort of exercise.

Sherlock leaned forward again, sucking hard on Irene's neck a moment. She let her head loll back, leaning on her palms. Sherlock pulled his head away and flashed Irene an intense look before reaching up under her dress and grabbing the edges of her lace underwear. She wordlessly lifted her hips, and Sherlock practically ripped the undergarment off, sliding it all the way down her legs, causing her shoes to drop off and to the floor as well. He tossed the underwear aside, his hands instantly returning to her waist.

Irene leaned her forehead against his. "Oh, I've missed you," she drawled, a combination of lustful and tender, and he hummed in response. There would be time for classical sentiment later. Right now there was something deeper, more primal, yet no less profoundly intimate driving him. Desire now coursed through him like a quick-spreading wildfire that could no longer be contained.

Without warning, Sherlock grabbed Irene around the thighs, his hands beneath her dress, fingers pressing into her soft skin. In one smooth motion, he hoisted her up off the counter and into his arms. As Irene's hands flew up to clasp together behind his neck, she inadvertently swept Sherlock's cup of water right off the counter, shattering glass all over the floor. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

Clearly surprised at his demeanour, Irene's eyes widened as Sherlock spun them around, took a step, and pressed her roughly against the wall. Her legs instinctively hooked around his waist to help hold herself up, though he had a firm, strong grip. She licked her lips, her eyes dark, cheeks red, and forehead as beaded with sweat as his own. Sherlock realised with a mixture of amazement and pride that  _he_ had actually been the one to render Irene speechless and wanting this time. He soaked up her anticipation, her obvious desire for him, locking this moment away in the deepest of vaults in his mind. Then, with a carefully angled, sharp thrust, he entered her.

For a moment, Sherlock was filled with a sense of just how perfect it felt to be intertwined with her like this. It wasn't only the warmth, the friction, the fantastic physical sensation that was still so new to him. No, Sherlock found the buzzing in his brain was equally owed to it being _her_. The Woman, whom after their last encounter and the ensuing six months of vague texting he had tried very hard not to think of as _his_ Woman. Yet now as he looked at Irene - lips parted, eyes glassy and wanting as she stared down at him, internal muscles contracting around him ever so slightly in encouragement - Sherlock knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was precisely that.  _Mine,_ he thought, at first a revelation. Then something more primal rippled through him, and as the word echoed in his mind it seemed to morph into something visceral, something that spiked his blood pressure and made him momentarily dizzy.

Then the moment passed, and Sherlock was filled with a rush of adrenaline and the accompanying crystal-clear focus that came with it. He held tightly to Irene's thighs and thrust slowly at first, experimentally, until he found an angle that caused her to lean her head back against the wall and emit a soft sound of pleasure. He thrust harder at the same angle, and Irene gasped, her arms around his neck beginning to shake slightly. Then Sherlock lost what remained of conscious thought and gave in completely to his baser instincts. He leaned forward, kissing the hollow of Irene's throat and thrusting at a steadily increasing pace. She moaned throatily, which sent a satisfied shiver through Sherlock. He savoured the contact, the power, the feel of her in his arms, all of it. He was utterly lost yet in perfectly the right place, wrapped up and intoxicated by this beautiful, brilliant, wholly singular Woman.

Waves of pleasure rolled through Sherlock with each steady movement of his hips. He felt himself in a haze not unlike that of a massive drug rush. As soon as the association entered his brain, Sherlock felt a slight wave of nausea and discomfort. It was something he'd realized the first time they'd had sex, and he'd left that far from resolved in his own mind. The oxytocin and adrenaline rush already had a very familiar place in Sherlock's catalogue of physical and psychological experiences, one that went back far longer in his life than sex. Fortunately, Irene provided precisely the right distraction when she leaned down and nipped at his ear, breathing out between thrusts, "Oh. Yes. Sher-. Sherlock. Ahh!"

His name on her lips sent a shiver up his spine and grounded him in the reality of this being a shared, intimate experience rather than a lonely, selfish pursuit, something he merely shot into his veins for instant gratification. Sherlock trailed hard kisses down Irene's throat, as far as her dress would allow, savouring the salty taste of her sweat and the faint stinging flavour of her perfume, reminding himself keenly of her presence in this act, never stopping the motion of his hips. He rocked her hard into the wall, perhaps a bit too hard, but she certainly wasn't complaining.

So he kept going, taking in the delicious feel of her body wound around his. He couldn't isolate individual elements of the experience the way he normally would, and some part of his brain screamed in protest at what such an undoing meant. But those screams were being drowned out now by the real, vocal exclamations filling the room and the enormous rush of hormones profusing every ounce of tissue in Sherlock's body, including, thank God, his pesky brain.

As he let himself be carried off on the tide of all the sensations, it didn't take long for Sherlock's thrusts to become rough, his kisses on Irene's neck dissolving into an open, hot mouth on her collar bone. His breath was growing ragged, and sweat dampened the wavy black hair around his forehead and at the nape of his neck. Irene's fingernails dug into his back through his shirt, and Sherlock shifted, the sound of crunching glass beneath his feet drowned out by both their increasingly loud sounds of ecstasy and the rhythmic pounding of Irene's back against the wall.

Sherlock's legs were shaking now, though not solely from the physical exertion. He was in a blissfully unthinking state, an incredible rarity for him, but on an instinctual level he still recognised what was happening. His grip on Irene was slipping, his movements growing more erratic as a taut, tingling sensation spread out from where they were joined to cover his whole body. He had the presence of physical self-preservation (if not mind) to stay his thrusts just long enough to grab hold of Irene tightly, turn around a few steps, and deposit her onto the thankfully sturdy oak kitchen table.

Sherlock instantly followed, falling heavily on Irene, his feet leaving the ground as he tumbled forward. Without missing a beat, he hooked his right arm under Irene's left knee, hiked her leg up, and pressed himself back into her again. He resumed his rapid thrusts, now with what he knew to be a better angle for her. Irene cried out, writhing beneath him in a wholly satisfying way. Sherlock was as undone as she. His clothes were an absolute sweaty, dishevelled mess, his trousers and boxers having slipped down nearly to his knees and his still-buttoned shirt hanging down around himself and Irene haphazardly. Irene's svelte black dress was hiked up and twisted around, her sweat-dampened hair fanned out haphazardly beneath her on the table. Neither one of them was about to complain about the sloppy, primal state they'd descended into.

After one particularly on point thrust, Irene's fingers dug deeply into the muscles of Sherlock's back. His head fell onto her shoulder as he gasped for breath. The table rocked beneath them, a steady loud tapping sound on the marble. Every atom in Sherlock's body buzzed with ecstasy. Irene gave a choked cry and clenched around him, and Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing he was right on the edge. His fingers scratched Irene's legs as he gave one last thrust, seizing and letting out a loud cry as the blinding, buzzing sensation shot through every part of his body and he emptied himself into her.

All things considered, it was still a very unfamiliar feeling for Sherlock, and he found himself collapsing on top of Irene, his limbs suddenly feeling strangely invertebrate. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears he could have sworn it was an external device lying next to his head.

He lay like that a moment, panting, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. Both of them gasped hungrily for air. Gazing down at the flush on Irene's face, the intent gaze in her eyes, Sherlock experienced a deep, possessive feeling and a now thoughtful, blissful rendition of this new notion of  _mine_. Neither one of them had the breath to say anything. Vaguely aware that his weight might be making it more difficult for Irene to breathe, Sherlock slowly propped himself up on his elbows, glancing up from her as he did.

The world stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen a figure standing stock still in the doorway, and in the next instant, Sherlock's brain processed what it was: Mary, open-mouthed, horrified.

Mary went red. Sherlock went white. The room, which had just been filled with loudly passionate sounds, went deathly silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I ended two chapters in a row in a very similar fashion with the sudden interruption by another character, but it *was* an intentional sort of parallelism. Pretty much everyone's in for a bit of a shock in this story. You may picture my evil grin of satisfaction here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer than expected to get this chapter up because I had a lot of editing work erased by my computer. But in consolation, there' a short chapter on Sherlock's POV going up tomorrow. It didn't really fit to combine it with this one.

When Mary had left John at Santa Maria del Fiore, she'd expected to rush back to the hotel, grab her good camera (which she'd left in her rush to get out and see the sights), and head right back into a relaxing day of sightseeing. She most decidedly had  _not_ expected to walk in on the sight (and sounds) of Sherlock rather fervently shagging some woman on the kitchen table.

At first it hadn't even computed. Oh, she'd got a very clear view of things: a dark-haired woman lying on her back, dress askew, leg hooked up over the arm of a dishevelled Sherlock, his fine shirt drenched in sweat, his tailored trousers down at his thighs as he thrust roughly into the woman. Mary had been so shocked that she was frozen to her spot by the door, unable to move or act as Sherlock and the mystery woman both climaxed rather loudly and collapsed in a heap on the table. An image Mary would very much like to bleach from her mind. In the six months they'd lived together, she'd come to think of Sherlock as something like a brother. Not only did the tableau she'd accidentally witnessed make her skin crawl with how improper it was for her to witness, it didn't fit at all with what she knew of Sherlock. It couldn't be. He didn't do  _that_ , did he?

Dear God, how she wished she'd remembered her camera the first time. And judging by the horrified look on Sherlock's face when his eyes connected with Mary's across the room, he was wishing this wasn't happening just as much as she was. Perhaps more, considering  _he_ was the one now lying half-undressed atop a strange woman, his face going white as a sheet as he no doubt realised what all Mary must have witnessed. She didn't think she'd ever seen the detective look so completely still before.

And that woman. Who on earth could she be? Sherlock had been travelling the world on his own for a year and a half prior to their meeting, but based on his seeming lack of interest in all things romantic or sexual, Mary had never entertained the notion that he might have some secret lover stashed away in Italy. And Mary still didn't really feel like that was the case. There was something else about the woman's identity casting an uncomfortable mood over the room, but Mary couldn't quite put her finger on it. Sherlock certainly wasn't forthcoming with an introduction. He remained huddled against the woman, their bodies providing a bit of privacy at least.

The excruciating silence may have only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like hours. Finally, Mary averted her eyes and stammered, "I was just... I left my camera. Oh God, I'm so sorry..."

Mary glanced up cautiously when she heard the mystery woman murmur something to Sherlock in Italian. The detective stared down at the woman a moment, his brow furrowing ever so slightly before he nodded and gave some reply also in Italian. Then he looked down, shifting awkwardly on the table as he pulled his boxers and trousers back up, at which point Mary averted her eyes again to give him a bit of privacy as he collected himself. She could hear Sherlock and the woman both sliding off the table, but she didn't look up again until he cleared his throat and said in a somewhat raspy voice, "Take your camera. She's leaving-"

"Oh, no. She doesn't have to go on my account. I'm not staying," Mary interrupted quickly. But the other woman was already off the table and heading over to the kitchen. It was then that Mary saw the shattered glass on the ground, Sherlock's discarded suit jacket, and the mystery woman's lacy black underwear cast aside in the kitchen. Mary was fairly certain she didn't want to know what all had gone on in there. With an uncomfortable shudder, she made a mental note to ask housekeeping to thoroughly scrub down all food preparation surfaces before she used them.

The other woman somehow found her way around the glass to her shoes, which she slid on. She picked up her underwear but didn't seem to be planning to put it back on. She seemed remarkably casual about the whole affair. The woman turned to Sherlock and made some lazily impatient remark in Italian. Sherlock picked up his suit jacket rather hesitantly. The whole feel of the exchange was making Mary even more uncomfortable. In an odd way, she felt like watching this uncomfortable interaction was more an invasion of privacy than seeing them actually having sex had been.

Mary had to get out of here. She finally moved into action, scanning the living room until she spotted her camera on the coffee table. She made a beeline for it, picking it up. "Really," she insisted, "This is all I needed."

Not heeding (or perhaps even understanding) Mary's comment, the Italian woman interjected something, staring at Sherlock pointedly. There was definitely something off about all of this. Well, more off than walking in on Sherlock having sex with someone. The woman gave Sherlock an impatient look, snapped her fingers, and held her hand out, palm up. Sherlock's face remained impassive but his eyes lowered for the briefest of moments. As both a psychologist and his friend, Mary could detect Sherlock's particular brand of deeply buried pain as he pulled something out of his suit jacket pocket. He stared at the woman and posed some question in Italian. She replied shortly.

Finally, Mary saw what Sherlock had taken from his jacket pocket: his wallet. He looked extremely uneasy and very intentionally avoided any glance in Mary's direction as he pulled out several large Euro bills, then handed them to the mystery woman, who tucked the money into her dress and gave Sherlock a smile and a flirtatious "ciao" before heading out the front door.

Oh, Mary realised.  _Oh._

Suddenly, Sherlock's high (even for Sherlock) level of awkwardness made much more sense. Mary's immediate reaction was one of revulsion, but that was quickly replaced with an intense empathy and concern for her friend. What on earth had driven him - a man who, to her knowledge, had never been in or had a desire for any kind of physical relationship before - to sleep with a prostitute? He obviously had no intention of answering that unspoken question. Sherlock didn't look at Mary, instead impassively slipping his wallet back in his jacket, then starting towards the exit.

"Sherlock, wait," Mary said, setting down her camera and stepping in front of her friend. She stared up at him, his sweat-soaked curls, still-askew dress shirt, tight-lipped expression but with a wealth of tumultuous feelings behind those steel-grey eyes. Most people might not have noticed the subtle expressions there, but Mary had lived with Sherlock long enough, observed him carefully enough to start a reasonable catalogue of her reserved friend's supposedly non-existent emotional states. She could read him the way he read a crime scene. And right now his anxiety, pain, and desperation were evident in his eyes if not in his face. He was out of sorts in every possible way. Something immutable within Mary had a strong need to understand those feelings, attempt to assuage them. Still, she knew leading with _that_ wouldn't get her very far with Sherlock. Instead, she suggested gently, "I know you've got to get to the lab, but you might think of changing first."

The self-preserving, stony crease of Sherlock's brow faded in the face of a logical suggestion. He sighed, seeming to concede the point with a small nod, then turned and headed back into his room, closing the door behind him without a word.

Mary let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, and immediately sank down onto the sofa. She closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed the heels of her palms to her forehead. She'd bought a bit of time to collect herself. Because she hadn't really wanted to talk with Sherlock while still feeling so shocked and awkward and frankly vaguely horrified. She didn't want to make things worse by coming across as judgemental. But she couldn't simply let him leave without talking to him about this. She wished she didn't have to, but it wasn't simply going to go away. She wasn't going to go through the rest of this holiday avoiding eye contact with Sherlock and awkwardly pretending nothing had happened until they finally had to talk about it anyway.

Not to mention, there were some very real and practical things to be worried about. As much as Mary had tried  _not_ to pay attention as Sherlock had collected himself, she hadn't been able to help but notice he hadn't disposed of any... prophylactic measures. Dear God, she could hardly even  _think_ the words to herself. How was she going to have this conversation? Nothing in all of Mary's training as a child psychologist had quite prepared her for the task of being Sherlock Holmes' sex ed teacher. Something she was sure he would try to avoid.

Mary very much would have liked a stiff drink right about then, but had no desire to go into the kitchen right now. Or possibly ever. Instead, she breathed deeply, collecting herself as best she could. She realised when Sherlock came back out, she'd better start with the most straightforward issues so as not to spook him any more than she already had. The practical questions were the necessary part, but her desire to understand  _why_ was, as always, the thing she knew she'd be driven to in the end, and by far the most difficult to get Sherlock to discuss. Really, it wasn't necessary to discuss it. And perhaps she ought to steer clear of that territory entirely if she didn't want to lose him. But she couldn't promise she'd be able to do that...

At the gentle creaking sound of a door, Mary looked up, her expression one of a psychologist's inviting ease. Sherlock, now looking a bit more himself in his crisp clean clothing and with a less pained expression on his face, must have recognised that look, because he immediately let out an irritated sigh. "You want to  _talk_ , don't you?" he said, sounding exasperated but resigned.

Mary knew how deftly Sherlock could dodge around personal conversations, but she'd also shown herself so persistent on certain occasions that he'd learned it was sometimes easier just to sit through it. Though she didn't think they'd ever had a conversation as uncomfortable as this was sure to be. "I dislike this as much as you do," Mary said.

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied tightly, but he sat down across from her anyway, unbuttoning his suit jacket and gripping the armrests of his chair. "Well?" he asked in a rather defensive tone that he clearly thought hid his anxiety from her.

"First of all, while I know that was rather uncomfortable for us both, I don't want you to feel too embarrassed. About me seeing you doing... that," Mary said. Of course, it was something she would have preferred to never, ever see. But considering she'd just now learned that Sherlock was sexually active at all, the last thing she wanted was for him to be so traumatized by the incident that he swore off this area of life entirely. Though she hoped to God she could steer him away from prostitutes. Mary continued, feeling a bit like she was addressing a teenager, "It's a natural, normal thing."

"Of course it is. I'm not embarrassed," Sherlock replied, as if the concept were genuinely ludicrous to him. "You and John are the ones with delicate English sensibilities about it. If you recall,  _I_ was the one who was just telling you both not to bother being coy about it."

Well, that was true. In spite of his (previously assumed) inexperience in the area, Sherlock had always been as frank about sex and nudity as he was about anything else. Mary recalled the stern conversation John had had early on with Sherlock about it being inappropriate for him to wander round the flat in only a thin sheet now that he had Mary for a flatmate as well. That had indeed surprised her and rankled her English sensibilities a bit, and they'd managed to persuade Sherlock to wear pyjama bottoms instead. Most of the time. So yes, she supposed it made sense that Sherlock wasn't scarred for life over that bit of the incident. At least there was that.

"Good. I only wanted to make sure," she said, though she was far from relaxed yet. Sherlock had still clearly been mortified by the whole situation, and if it hadn't been because of modesty, that pointed to other, deeper sources of embarrassment. Which both the friend and therapist in Mary wanted desperately to examine. But for now, she thought perhaps she'd work up her nerve better if she focused on the practical. "But I'm a bit more concerned about something else," Mary began.

Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow, impatient as always with long pauses when he felt someone ought to be conveying information verbally. "Yes?" he prompted.

Mary shifted in her seat, then said, "I don't want to sound like a health lecture, but I was surprised and fairly concerned..."  _Shit._ There was no delicate way to approach this subject. She found herself desperately wishing John had been the one to come back for the camera, because this seemed like a topic that belonged between men. Mary sighed, turning up her palms in surrender and abandoning all coyness. "There's no other way to put this: you need to wear a condom." There, that was said. Frankly, she'd been a bit alarmed to notice that lapse in judgement from Sherlock. He may be new to this arena, but he was well acquainted with medicine.

But she could have chalked it up to his being a novice not thinking clearly, caught up in the moment, had Sherlock not replied matter-of-factly, "We didn't need one. She's on birth control."

Mary stared back, now dumbfounded. Sherlock had some very unusual areas of common sense missing from his brain, but this was simple medical science. Sherlock knew an enormous amount about anatomy, physiology, diseases. The man spent half his time in the lab of a hospital, for God's sakes. There was no way he was  _this_ ignorant of the risks he was opening himself up to. Mary countered, once she was finally able to manage the words, "Sherlock, she's a _prostitute._ Birth control ought to be the least of your worries. She could have a whole host of diseases, including HIV for all you know. In fact she most likely does have some kind of STD since she obviously she has no qualms about having unprotected sex with her clients. Do you think that's just for you? She could have done that with dozens of other men... hundreds!" Mary couldn't contain her repulsion any longer.

"She isn't some common street whore," Sherlock countered sharply, surprising Mary with his defensiveness. It was almost as if he were standing up for this woman's honour, bizarre as that seemed. Sherlock must have realised that he'd tipped his hand, revealed at least some emotional involvement, because he quickly sat back and forced a more casual air. Mary felt an uncomfortable realisation settle over the room. She tried very hard to deny it. He was just irritated, she reasoned. He wasn't actually invested in this woman."And I put myself at risk constantly in my work,"Sherlock reasoned dismissively.

"With elements that are out of your control," Mary countered. She really could not believe Sherlock was being so blasé about the dangers he was exposing himself to. It simply didn't make sense. "This is an entirely unnecessary risk. I'd suggest you steer clear of prostitutes entirely, but for God's sake, if you're going to sleep with a sex worker you should at least protect yourself." Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair tighter, his eyes narrowing in warning. That uncomfortable unspoken tension in the air had increased tenfold. And Mary was becoming more and more worried that Sherlock may have confused a good actress for the real thing, which was unlike him.

But then this was all fairly new to him, Mary realised with a pang of sympathy. Still, it was frustrating, trying to convey to Sherlock something that would have been perfectly obvious to anyone else on the outside. Mary gave a small sigh, practised at modulating her own feelings when speaking to someone about theirs. She leaned forward a little, her tone warmer now. "I know it's easier to pretend that you're actually in a real, meaningful relationship if you don't use protection, but that's no reason..."

Mary trailed off. Sherlock had gone from looking irritable to hurt rather quickly, and it was only after a moment's confusion that Mary realised just how badly that had come out. Even though it was true, she knew it was unkind. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly, though she had meant it. God, she was rubbish with adults. Though this was reminding her much more of dealing with a teenage boy than anything. Mary opened her mouth as she searched futilely for a way to rephrase her comment, even as she saw the hurt in Sherlock's eyes settle in over his whole face and down onto his shoulders. He sank a little ways back in his chair under the weight of it.

Sherlock held up a hand, relieving Mary of her attempts to back-pedal. His eyes drifted off down and to the side somewhere. It was a moment before he spoke, though he didn't look back at her. "No, you're right. Obviously I'm aware that she'd paid to act a certain way, to pretend to feel a certain way. She's... a professional. I'm aware that it's not..." he seemed to turn inward, as if having an uncomfortable revelation. Then his features reset themselves in a stony configuration. His now calmed, slightly resigned eyes turned back to Mary. "I have no illusions," he asserted without discernible emotion.

She wasn't sure that was true. After all, what was the point of a prostitute if not the illusion of someone caring about you? Unless it was an entirely, purely sexual pursuit. In that case, the lack of protection may have had more to do with sensation than romance. And Sherlock, with what Mary had always thought of as his likely Aspergers, did seem potentially prone to being enthralled by new sensations and situations even if he didn't quite understand the greater social implication of his actions.

Mary shifted uncomfortably on the couch. This certainly wasn't a line of thinking she wanted to dwell on, and it was deeply in the realm of Sherlock Information That is None of My Business. She really,  _really_ didn't need or want to know what excited or motivated him sexually. Just that thought sent an uncomfortable shudder through Mary. Once again, she found herself wondering why she'd left John at the church instead of making him retrieve her camera like a dutiful fiancée. It would have solved a great deal. Still, she was the one here now, and the recklessness of Sherlock's behaviour concerned her; as his friend she couldn't simply leave it alone. Clearing her throat, Mary asked, "Is this something you've done before?"

He eyed her tentatively. "Had sex?" he asked, uncertain.

"With a prostitute," she clarified, though dear God, she hadn't thought of that possibility. If on top of everything else it turned out she'd just witnessed Sherlock  _losing his virginity,_ Mary thought she might put her fist through something.

Sherlock's features remained impassive as he took a moment to consider his response. Which was somewhat odd, since that ought to be a yes or no question. But now he seemed to be mulling over more than just this one question. He gave her a leery look. "You're really determined to know everything, aren't you?" he asked, exasperated.

"I'm only trying to understand better so that maybe I can be of some help," Mary said carefully.

Sherlock gave her a doubtful look at that prospect, but tapped his fingers thoughtfully, anxiously on his chair. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with this whole situation, but he was also growing more particularly reticent. He hesitated before starting slowly, evenly, "I'll tell you about it if you do something for me."

That got Mary's attention. If he was willing to ask her for something, even something small, it was an inroad of sorts. She leaned forward, listening. "If I can," she agreed.

Sherlock fixed her with a nervous expression, and she saw in his eyes the first sign that he actually registered the gravity of any of this since the moment Mary had first walked in on him. Sherlock swallowed, his voice thicker as he said, "Don't tell John."

Mary's stomach churned uncomfortably. Normally her inclination, particularly as a psychologist, was to hold everything in confidence. But John was her fiancé, and Sherlock his best friend. Keeping something of this magnitude a secret seemed unduly deceptive. And John would have been able to approach this topic with Sherlock much better than she had, Mary was sure. She really did feel Sherlock ought to talk to him. Still, the detective was looking at her gravely, and that was hard to ignore. "If you're certain. But I do think if you told him-"

"No," Sherlock cut in sharply. His eyes were slightly widened, and his tone grew more intense as he leaned forward. "You can't tell him. I don't want him to know about any of this." He paused a moment, then added a surprisingly desperate and sincere, " _Please_."

Mary was taken aback by the sudden earnestness. Sherlock hadn't seemed all that embarrassed about the incident when speaking with her. In fact, she was far more worried he wasn't taking it seriously enough. But now she recognised that perhaps he'd seen her discovery and probing questions as nothing in comparison with the possibility of John finding out. That Sherlock was more ashamed and conflicted about this than he had first attested to be didn't surprise Mary, but it did reinforce her supposition that this was a complicated issue, even from Sherlock's perspective. Mary desperately wanted to find the heart of the matter, but suppressed that desire once again. Instead she regarded her friend, observed the desperation in his voice and eyes. She knew how private Sherlock was. The last thing he needed, doing as well as he was in his drug recovery, were added stressors. And John finding out would evidently be a major stressor to Sherlock. She realised she couldn't refuse his request.

Finally, Mary replied, "All right."

"Thank you," he said quietly. Then, sitting back he settled into his usual bizarrely straightforward and impassive manner as he continued, "Yes, I've had sex with a prostitute before."

Hearing that her friend had slept with prostitutes more than once shouldn't have carried any measure of relief with it, but Mary couldn't help feeling slightly better knowing at least she hadn't interrupted his first sexual experience. She remained focused on the issue at hand, though."Unprotected?" she asked tentatively, not having great hope for the answer.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, still matter-of-fact. Evidently he'd pushed through whatever emotional connection he had and was sticking to the facts. But at least, Mary reasoned, her was still talking to her.

Still, Mary shuddered a little as she contemplated the implications of Sherlock's response. She was still reeling from the revelation that Sherlock had had sex with anyone, let alone engaged in such risky sexual behaviour, and that he'd gone out of his way to find and pay a prostitute to come to their suite and sleep with him. She was just starting to realise that he had got rid of her and John this afternoon for this specific purpose, and was beginning to wonder just how much planning had gone into this, when a different disturbing thought occurred to her. She might not have known Sherlock to engage in  _this_ kind of risky behaviour, but the dangerous thrill-seeking itself certainly had precedent. She gave Sherlock a concerned stare and her voice softened. "And in addition to calling this woman here, have you been looking for any... chemical thrills?"

Sherlock's icy demeanour thawed a little. This was a subject they all took very seriously. His tone was devoid of his usual prickliness as he replied earnestly, "I'm not using drugs again. I have no desire to. You know that."

She wanted to believe him. He looked very sincere and a bit concerned, most likely aware that she might doubt him. "I thought I knew a lot of things about what you would or wouldn't do, Sherlock," Mary pointed out, more worried than accusatory. "But what am I supposed to think when suddenly you're sleeping with God knows how many prostitutes?"

Sherlock sighed, gritting his teeth a moment. Clearly, he didn't want to go into motives, but he also must have recognised the source of Mary's concerns. He hung his head in contemplation. " _One_ ," he ground out finally, catching Mary off guard. "It was the same one. And it only happened once before," he said, head still down for a moment. Then he looked up with a thin-lipped sneer, "And not in Baker Street, in case you were worried about your home being spoiled by my indiscretions. It was while I was away. You needn't be concerned with it."

Mary gave him a sceptical look, indicating that quite obviously she was concerned with this. In fact, hearing that this prostitute was the same woman he'd slept with before, evidently the  _only_ woman he'd ever slept with only made her much more intrigued. Whether he'd tried to hide it or not, Mary had absolutely seen that Sherlock had some degree of sentimental attachment to this woman. How could he not, really, given the unique place she held for him. Mary desperately wanted to ask him how it had started in the first place. Then a thought occurred to her. If this woman was Italian, and he'd wanted to have another encounter with her, had he picked this case simply so he could... no, that was going too far, even for Sherlock, wasn't it? Mary hoped so. She was reeling from all this, trying to find a way to put a question into words when Sherlock pressed the other point. "Do you believe me about the drugs?" he asked, a bit anxiously.

Mary studied him a moment. She'd begun to abandon the notion that she could actually tell when he was lying. But where the cocaine was regarded, there was still her experience watching him almost die from an overdose six months ago and observing how seriously he'd taken his rehab, in spite of his loathing for therapists. For all that he'd kept secret, he'd never seemed to waver on that subject. Finally, she said, "Yes, I do actually." The detective relaxed a little, as did Mary. Still, knowing this was not a chronic or drug-related behaviour almost made the situation more confusing. "But then why seek out this woman again? Even if you wanted... that sort of contact. With that sort of person. Why go to the trouble of finding the same person?"

"I knew she was here already. It was convenient, that's all," Sherlock replied, almost too casually.

"Does she at least have a name?" Mary ventured. She didn't buy for a second that there was absolutely no sentiment involved at all, but knew addressing the subject too directly would just cause Sherlock to fold in on himself. She had to be careful.

"She's a prostitute, Mary. Not a date I've brought round for dinner," Sherlock replied thinly. "I've given you the information you required, but it's not good enough, is it?" he said, shifting irritably in his chair. "You want the  _reasons_ , is that it? It's not that you have actual concerns for your safety or property. You feel that you're owed a bit of emotional payoff, after having sat here suffering through this. As if you're the one for whom this is difficult," he grumbled.

Now Mary could hear warning bells going off, could sense they were sliding towards one of Sherlock's snowballing, sharp-tongued moods. His shock and even pain seemed to have worn thin, giving way to irritation. Once that got going, he'd be gone. Mary tried to soften her tone a bit. "I don't require anything, Sherlock. But you've just told me you knew this woman from before. Then as soon as we got here you got rid of John and I and called her in to see you again. It seemed like there might be some... extra incentive. And frankly you've not told me anything to counter that."

Sherlock stared back evenly. Finally, he started, quite evenly, "I was hunting down Moriarty's network, but there was a lull. I was stuck here in Florence a while. I was very high and very bored most of the time. I started considering that sex was a sort of bodily-induced natural high that I'd never tried before. I'd never been particularly interested, but it was something new. I ran into this prostitute near the Arno River. She was very beautiful, with an attractive figure as well. She seemed as good a choice as any. And turned out to be quite good at her job, at least as far as I could tell, though I admit to having nothing to compare it to. But it was an interesting and rather pleasurable experience."

Mary wasn't sure she'd ever heard someone describe losing their virginity in quite such a nonchalant fashion. But then, she'd also never known someone to lose their virginity at the age of 37 to a prostitute. That thought sobered Mary and sent a small pang through her chest. She was trying very hard not to seem too openly sympathetic, lest she annoy Sherlock. But the more he spoke, inevitably the more she felt for him. Even if he himself seemed rather casual about the whole thing, at least outwardly. He continued, "So when we wound up back here for the case, I realised I still had her mobile number. Thought I might run an experiment, try the experience sober and make a comparison. Perhaps I was a bit too zealous and careless."

"That's one way to put it," Mary grumbled. Whether or not this woman was a prostitute, he'd evidently put a fair amount of passion into things this time anyway. A reminder of her suspicions that there was more to this for him than simple experimentation. And something else had occurred to her. He'd said he just happened to realise he had this woman's number still, but Mary recalled that he hadn't had a mobile when he'd returned to London from being on the run. Any mobile numbers, names, addresses, or other personal information he knew from that time he'd have to have specifically committee to memory.

That was the final piece of evidence as far as Mary was concerned.  _She_ knew without a doubt that Sherlock had at least some feelings for this prostitute. Which obviously would not be reciprocated. But how could she tell him that? He'd been through quite enough emotional and mental anguish for the moment. Mary was not unaware of just how stressful this whole situation must be to him. Perhaps it was time she gave him a bit of a break from her emotional spelunking. She studied her friend carefully, then shook her head slightly. In a lighter tone, she said, "I mean, good God, Sherlock, you couldn't have at  _least_ gone into your room?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "W-  _I_ got a little carried away." His eyes flicked to hers as tiniest ghost of suspicion floated through Mary's mind. Because she's thought at first he was about to say ' _we_ got a little carried away'. She couldn't help remembering the look on his face when she'd made the comment about a substitute for a real relationship. And in spite of his story, in spite of how straightforward and expertly nonchalant he'd become now in his retelling, in spite of how almost oddly calm he was about it, Mary's mind kept playing that image of him slumping back into his chair and averting his eyes towards the ground over and over. Because that had been a real, natural reaction of the kind Sherlock rarely let out on display. Mary had struck a chord there, in one way or another.

Now things had quieted and sobered down considerably. And as the silence stretched between them, so too did the discomfort. Sherlock for one quickly started to seem about ready to leap from his chair. He looked across at Mary and said, tightly, "Now I've listened to your concerns for my health and well-being. I've given you the facts you've asked for, which were much more than I would have liked to share. So if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about this any more. Now or ever again."

That last part she wasn't sure she could agree to. "I'll do my best."

"You promised not to bring it up," Sherlock countered.

"With John," Mary reminded him. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Look, I won't say anything to you. But you can't ask me to just pretend it never happened and erase all knowledge of these things from my memory. These things have serious implications. I'm not like you, I can't just ignore or suppress a major shift in how I view a good friend." Sherlock looked antsy, so Mary held up a hand in reassurance. "But I won't  _say_  anything, either. But please,  _please_  come to me if you want to talk about it." She paused for a beat, not sure whether she wanted to know the answer to her next question. "Are you going to be … seeing this woman again while we're here?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her in slight warning. "I fail to see how that's your business."

"It is when you  _'see'_ her in the kitchen of the suite we share," Mary pointed out. "I was just going to say, it's your business, and I know it's not illegal either. But please at least protect yourself. That's all."

Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine," he replied. "I'll do that. Now will you leave me alone?"

That did make her feel slightly better. Though it didn't stop her head from reeling with the radical paradigm change that the last thirty or so minutes had brought to her world. "Yes," Mary replied, just now starting to feel emotionally exhausted, a bit like a runner after a marathon.

Sherlock looked equally haggard, but was not going to miss his chance to escape just because he was worn out. He immediately stood, buttoning his jacket and heading for the door. "I'll take the samples to the lab and let John know once I've reached a conclusion," he said. Sherlock stopped at the door, turning back to Mary. He opened his mouth, but took a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, "I hope you and John enjoy your holiday." With that, he was out the door.

Mary let out a long sigh, closed her eyes, and rubbed at a forming tension headache around her forehead. This was an incredibly surprising and unsettling revelation, and now she had to keep it to herself. Pretend it never happened. Mary had rarely felt so powerless in wanting to aid someone who clearly needed it but wouldn't accept it. Sherlock had been open with both her and John about his drug use. Why was this so different?

Opening her eyes, Mary was reminded of the broken glass on the floor. That at least was something that could be set right. She crossed to the phone and rang housekeeping.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said yesterday, this is a very short chapter, but I thought breaking 4 and 5 up this way was better than them being put together in one 8,000 word chapter with both these rather heavy scenes.
> 
> That last chapter was dedicated to my friend on whom my version of Mary is based. In spite of not being a fic reader at all, she recently read SotF, loved it, and unsurprisingly felt for Mary. And then we had an hour long conversation on how she (a PhD student at a methodone clinic) would most definitely feel the need to awkwardly analyse/comfort Sherlock. So there you go. Blame my awkward/awesome friend for that awkward chapter.

As soon as Sherlock stepped outside of the hotel, his mobile vibrated. He crossed the street as he took the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. The familiar number with its +972 county code lit up his screen. She must have been at a café or store facing the street, waiting for him to emerge. Well if she expected him to stop and chat, she was going to be disappointed. Sherlock stepped off the main road and into a small side street, which he kept walking down as he answered his mobile. "Can I not have one moment's peace?" he asked irritably.

"Settle down. I know you've got work to do but I wanted to make sure everything was all right," Irene said.

"No, it isn't all right," Sherlock replied angrily. How could she have the nerve to suggest that, after the position she'd put him in? "Now Mary thinks I'm sleeping with a prostitute. Which everyone seems to believe I would do." Sherlock couldn't help the dagger-sharp tone. While he very much wished to forgive the past, he still recalled with a keen pain the time that Irene had accused him of treating her like a prostitute. She'd actually gone so far as to hand him back the money he'd given her for lodging, as if he'd been paying her for sexual favours. It was the first time he'd made a sexual advance on her, and it had gone as horribly as possible. He'd been desperate for her, and she for him, but he'd been so coked up he'd been physically unable to perform. God, he could still remember that moment as if it were happening now: being touched by a woman for the first time in his life, and his body not responding in the slightest. And when he'd tried to pleasure Irene in other ways, she'd stopped him. Implied she'd just meant it to be a little bit of enjoyment for him, not about her. Not about  _them._

In spite of the reconciliation that had occurred between them since then, that first time they'd tried to have sex and she'd accused him of treating her as a prostitute remained the most deeply mortifying and painful experience of Sherlock's life. Yes, Irene had clarified then that she'd only made that remark to emphasize that she actually did care about him and that he needn't pay her for anything, lodging or otherwise. But it remained a memory he never wanted to retread in his mind. Which was precisely what had happened when Irene had whispered hurriedly to him in Italian that he should follow her lead, then stuck her hand out and demanded money from him after they'd just had what he considered incredible, passionate sex. The fact that it was obviously an act didn't help much.

"Why did you have to pick  _that_ as your cover?" he asked tightly, though the edges of his voice were tinged with lurking pain. And to think Mary thought the inane story he'd made up about his first sexual experience was shocking. He could talk to her about anything, indeed. He knew she believed that because she was a psychologist and because she was intellectually aware that he'd done drugs and had even seen him on them once that she had any idea what he'd really been like when fully uninhibited. But she was completely out of her depth on that account. No, whether she realised it or not, he knew Mary did  _not_ actually want to see him drop his carefully constructed defences and pour out the darkest corners of his soul to her. She conceived only of blackness, not the actual vacuum that lurked there, sucking in everything around it. Opening that up wasn't good for anyone.

After a few moments of careful, measured silence, Irene replied gently, "I'm sorry. I hadn't really thought of that." At least she picked up on what he was referring to without him having to say it directly. It was mortifying and painful enough that it was something that had happened and existed in time, let alone if he'd had to actually talk about it. Irene continued carefully, "But it's better than her knowing the truth, isn't it?" Sherlock didn't have a counter for that. He bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance, trying to calm himself down.

Irene must have read the silence for the tacit agreement that it was, because she continued, "Look, I'm not precisely happy at being taken for a prostitute either. But I had to think quickly. I realised if I pretended to be some woman you'd just met, it would raise many more questions about why you'd suddenly decided to start sleeping with women now, how long this had been going on, forcing you to decide on the spot if you were going to lie about this ever happening back home. And then they'd want to know who I was, John would want to meet me..." she let him take a moment to see where she was going with that. "Besides which, I knew you wouldn't be able to hide your affection for me, and if Mary perceived this as a situation where poor inexperienced Sherlock had fallen for a prostitute rather than a regular woman, I wagered she was much more likely to feel sorry for you and could be more easily persuaded to keep your secret from John. Which, ultimately, is by far the biggest concern. Since I take it from her reaction that she doesn't know who I am." She paused a moment to let that sink in, then asked, "Was I wrong about the cover story?"

Sherlock drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself with the fact that her logic was sound. "No," he admitted. "I think it might have worked." Then he added, a bit more sternly, "But none of it would have been necessary had you just gone to the other hotel like I asked you to."

"I'm sorry," Irene said quietly, her voice in a sincere tone he liked to think was reserved only for him. "If it makes a difference, I do feel awful about this."

Her sincerity cooled his anger a bit, though he felt a restlessness still stirring within him. His conversation with Mary had brought up many questions and uncertainties he'd rather not deal with at the moment. In fact he wouldn't mind pretending they'd never come up at all. Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I suppose I didn't do much to dissuade you," he admitted.

"Quite the opposite," Irene replied, and he could hear the coy smile creeping into her voice. In spite of the immense stress he felt, that gave Sherlock the tiniest bit of satisfaction. Irene continued in the same tone, perhaps sensing that he welcomed the change in subject, "In fact, I must say you surprised me. I'd half expected you to melt at first, but you most certainly turned the tables on me. So to speak."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked up slightly. He passed a group of tourists before replying in a challenging rumble, "You expected all sweetness and light?"

Irene laughed, a rich dark sound that sent a tingle down Sherlock's spine. Damn her. "Not quite. But I certainly wasn't expecting to utilise so many pieces of furniture and structural elements. And I didn't think I'd wind up with bruises on my back."

Sherlock swallowed, quite surprised to find himself vaguely aroused at the notion. Interesting. "Sorry," he replied thickly, more because it seemed like the thing to say than because of actual contrition.

"Mmm, don't be," Irene drawled, and Sherlock felt his skin warming marginally. In the last six months, he and Irene had restrained themselves to texting, never calls save for the first one. He'd been unaware of the effect her voice could evidently have on him. He made a mental note of that, adding it to the long list of areas he wished to explore with her.

There was a beat, then Irene added,"Were you planning that?"

"Was I planning for you to surprise me in my hotel?" Sherlock asked with a large dose of scepticism, not sure what she was getting at.

"No," Irene began slowly, "I mean shagging me against the wall." Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, even while cursing his treacherous body as his feet dragged ever so slightly on the pavement. Irene continued, "That's fairly difficult. There's a bit of logistics involved. I find it hard to believe that was simply a spur of the moment decision."

Of course she'd realised it hadn't been. Sherlock bit his bottom lip a moment, contemplating whether he ought to actually give her the satisfaction of an answer. But he had a feeling she'd somehow figure it out herself if he didn't tell her anyway. "I've been doing a bit of research."

He could hear the grin in her voice as she replied, bemused, " _Research._ Is that what they're calling watching pornography these days?"

"No, not pornography," he replied disdainfully. "I still don't understand its appeal. I'm attracted to you and your body. Some anonymous woman's naked form is no more than a biological vessel. No, I was curious about various sexual positions, their supposed benefits, some other things I hadn't ever really bothered to look into before. I was able to find some relevant information in a few magazines."

"What sorts of magazines?" Irene asked, and he could tell by the hesitation in her voice she was struggling not to make a number of cheeky comments in response to what he'd just said.

"One was called Cosmopolitan," Sherlock replied. Irene burst out laughing, all semblance of restraint gone. Sherlock scowled, and grumbled, "I'm glad you find my attempts at augmenting my lack of experience amusing. This was for your benefit, you know. The writing was perfectly dreadful, but there were some useful diagrams and pieces of advice. I felt it would at least be a jumping off point for personal research in the area." Sherlock noticed that Irene was still chuckling. " _What?_ **"** he asked, now genuinely a bit annoyed. This, on top of everything that had happened with Mary back at the hotel, was really starting to set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

Irene cleared her throat and drew a breath on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry. I'm being rude. It's just a rather incongruous image, you reading a women's sex advice magazine. But believe me, I appreciate the effort already. And far be it from me to impede your curiosity. I'm more than willing to help you with field research." A bit more seriously, Irene added, "Though I wouldn't mind spending some time together that's slightly less athletic."

Sherlock grew quiet, turning that remark over in his mind. Did Irene mean that she wanted to talk, spend time together, or merely that she wanted to engage in more leisurely sexual activity? Mary's comment about substituting sex for a real relationship, though not applicable in the way she thought, had indeed given Sherlock pause. Though he and Irene had certainly expressed a high level of sentiment for one another back in Tel Aviv, and once when he'd called her after his overdose, their communication since then had been confined to sparse, flirtatious texting with the occasional question about his rehab progress. There'd been no discussion of a relationship, per se. He didn't quite know how he felt about that. Realising he'd remained silent for some time, Sherlock replied generically, "That would be fine."

"What are you up to tonight?"

"I'm on my way to a lab to work on my case. Which I will then continue to work on with John the rest of the day," Sherlock pointed out sternly. "But even if I didn't have work, I hardly think now would be the time for me to sneak off again."

"Give her a day to get used to it," Irene suggested.

"I have to go," Sherlock said shortly, having reached the University of Florence's science building, and the end of his patience with this conversation.

"All right," Irene said, then made a sound like she was about to begin a new phrase. She paused for a few moments, editing herself. Finally, she said, "It was good to see you. I look forward to seeing you again."

"I'll text you," Sherlock replied curtly, then hung up without commenting. If the magnetic pull in his chest he experienced just speaking to her on the phone was any indication, he couldn't edit himself as easily as Irene.

 


	6. Chapter 6

John and Mary had wound up having such a fantastic afternoon holiday that he had nearly forgot about the case. Right up until Sherlock texted him just as they were about to sit down for tea (the meal; the actual beverage would, naturally, be espresso, Mary had declared). They were outside at a little café off the Palazzo Vecchio when John's hip vibrated. He slid his mobile out to look at the text.

« _Identified crowbar and handsaw brands and models. Time to check stores. SH.»_

John sighed, immediately regretting that he hadn't waited until after having his espresso to read the message. This could have easily waited 15 or 20 minutes, and he could have pretended to be none the wiser. But now, he'd been responsible and looked at his texts. "Does he have some kind of alarm that goes off to let him know I'm deeply relaxed and can't be allowed to stay that way?" he grumbled.

Mary gave him a mildly reproachful look. "He did bring us here for this holiday, with our flights and that fantastic hotel paid for," she pointed out. John quietly conceded that point with a shrug of his eyebrows. Then Mary added thoughtfully, "And it does seem like this case is rather important. It's  _Galileo_ you're looking for, after all. He's rather important."

"I suppose if you're into that whole 'science' thing," John replied with a light touch of irony. "I bet Sherlock's not even realised it's afternoon tea yet. He'll have worked the whole day through without a break or ever glancing at the clock. Reckon he'll get any leisure time out of this trip at all?"

To John's surprise, Mary's response to the light-hearted question was to go a bit peakish, open her mouth as if to say something, then swallow hard and sit up straighter, giving a noncommittal shrug. It had all happened in just a few seconds, but it was such an unusual reaction that John couldn't help wondering what on earth had brought it on. Maybe he'd just imagined it. The sunshine that was so wonderfully warming his skin might in fact be giving him heatstroke, he reasoned. He did feel himself burning...

"Well," Mary began, more casually, "usually he focuses entirely on his cases. But then he's not been on an overseas case in a while and I've certainly never been with him on one so I really don't think I could make any kind of guess about how he'd want to spend any free time he might get."

John eyed Mary carefully. She seemed relaxed now. And it occurred to him that her earlier nervousness was because she'd probably just been reminded of the cautions Dr. Sayers had given about Sherlock going overseas, entering a new environment. Sherlock had been clean six months and Sayers hadn't expressed any direct concerns about this trip as fas as John knew. The psychiatrist was a friend of Mary's and she was a bit more up to speed on these things. But still, it was undeniable that the unstable, unfamiliar environment, lack of routine, and absence of normal structure was a potential challenge for Sherlock. Certainly John realised it was, and of course Mary as a psychologist was aware of it as well.

Reassured that he wasn't going mad and that he'd located an actual source of worry for Mary, John gave her a reassuring smile. "Yeah well I'm sure if there's anything bad going on we'll notice. After all, we're still sharing a hotel suite." Mary shifted, and John's brow furrowed slightly. "You haven't noticed anything... unusual, have you?"

Mary shook her head. "No," she said, swallowing and pausing. "But it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to keep a sharp eye out when you're with him. Just in case there is... anything."

"I will," John replied, studying her again. He genuinely couldn't tell if she was hiding some specific observation or simply overly concerned for her friend. If he were Sherlock, perhaps he'd be able to figure it out from her fingertips or the way she crossed her legs or something. But John was restricted to normal human guesswork, and right now he was coming up with a 50-50 flip.

John's mobile, now on the table, buzzed again, bringing him back to the task at hand. To his surprise, John saw that it was a call rather than a text. He picked up, but didn't even have a chance to give a greeting before Sherlock snapped, "Have both your thumbs been crushed in some unfortunate accident in the past few hours?"

"Good afternoon," John replied, rather testily.

"That's the only reason I can think of for not texting back, so I thought I'd call and give my condolences," Sherlock drawled sardonically. Then, shifting instantly back to business he said, "I have a list of stores that sell carbide-tipped hand saws. We need to find someone who's bought a particular DeWalt model in blue along with a yellow DeWalt wrecking bar style crowbar. It's unlikely two people have purchased that same combination of tools in the last week or so. It should lead us to our perpetrators. I'm texting you an address of the first store. Meet me there in five minutes. And do hurry, many of them will close in a few hours."

Before John even had a chance to get a word in, Sherlock had hung up. The doctor closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, a waiter was standing over him. "Something to eat? Coffee?" the young man asked in stilted English clearly only practiced in his job.

"She'll have an espresso," John said, getting to his feet. "I've got to go," he said apologetically, to Mary rather than to the young waiter. She gave him an understanding small smile and nod. John got out of the impatient waiter's way and began walking briskly in the direction of the shop Sherlock had ordered him to. Something in the back of his mind reminded him now to pay extra attention to his friend's actions. But if that phone call had been any indication, John was sure Mary was overreacting. Sherlock seemed as completely focused on the case as ever.

* * *

Sherlock and John had made their way around to eight hardware and industrial stores in the greater Florence area and had employed a number of old stand-by tricks for distracting cashiers away from receipt books and computers before they'd found what they were looking for.

It was at a little store down by the Arno. Sherlock had been behind the counter quickly scrolling through the past week's sales records; John had been asking a very frustrated middle-aged female cashier to tell him for a third time, in English, the difference between two sets of gardening shears. She had looked just about ready to give up on the entire United Kingdom by the time Sherlock had found what he was looking for, made a mental note of the name and credit card information, and slipped out from behind the counter. John had looked immensely relieved, and Sherlock had felt the spring in his step that was always brought on by a good lead. Though he wasn't sure either of them felt quite as happy about their exit as the shopkeeper, who threw her hands in the air and let out some exclamation in Italian that Sherlock didn't quite understand.

By the time they reached the hotel, night had fallen. Sherlock's clarity of purpose seemed razor sharp as he walked briskly in the cool night air. When he'd stepped out of the shop and relayed the name of their suspect - Luca Folino - to John, it had seemed like everything for the moment. Who was this Luca? Where was he holding Galileo's body? How could Sherlock find him? Or something he could leverage against him? Sherlock was heading back to the hotel knowing that the next step was to research and gather as much information as possible on this Luca Folino. The detective's mind was completely clear and focused on this task alone.

Right up until the moment he re-entered their hotel suite.

Compartmentalisation had always been one of Sherlock's strong suits. He'd managed to take all of the extremely strong sentiments, physical sensations, alarming personal implications, and dangerous revelations from earlier in the day and zip them away neatly while he'd been in the lab then out at the various hardware stores working on the case. It was a hindrance to his work and of no use to him personally to let those thoughts consume him. Yes, he admitted to having the occasional thought about what Irene might be doing at the moment, a tingling reminder in the back of his mind that she was right here in the same city as he was. That ever-present magnetic pull, made stronger by proximity. But that low-fi interference was something he'd been able to manage while out in the lab, in the shops, working the case.

But as soon as Sherlock stepped back into that warmly lit, Tuscan styled, tan-marble finished room with its particular look, smell, the feel of the air... there were a hundred small details Sherlock hadn't even realised his body and mind had catalogued earlier in the day that now called up memories he had evidently not been keeping nearly as far under his conscious mind as he thought. He actually paused in the doorway as John continued past, blissfully unaware.

Mary, who was sitting on the couch, looked up with a smile at John. When her eyes flicked to Sherlock, the smile wavered momentarily, and Sherlock felt his mouth go dry in what he could only describe as panic. Because not only was he having this ridiculous reaction, not only was his mind being accosted with images and sounds and sensations and tastes that made his limbs feel heavy, but Mary  _knew_. Sherlock could tell she knew precisely why he was still standing stock still in the doorway even while John pleasantly plopped down on the couch beside her.

Sherlock's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, not so much out of embarrassment as apprehension. It wasn't what Mary had witnessed but what she'd been told that set Sherlock's teeth on edge. Thanks to Irene's cover, he was stuck playing into this narrative that he was secretly having desperate unprotected sex with a prostitute he was pining after. That Mary had accepted this explanation irritated him enough. That he had to play into whatever poor, sad narrative she had no doubt already constructed in her mind about his alleged behaviour was far worse. Indeed, he could see something like sympathy and an overplayed look of acceptance on Mary's face as she hugged John and looked past him to Sherlock. The message was clear:  _it's all right. I won't tell him._ She was practically dripping with warmth and acceptance; it took all of Sherlock's willpower not to sneer in response.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, setting his features into what he hoped was an approximation of solemn and grateful understanding, and forced his body back into motion. He walked with purpose into the living area to find his laptop. By now, John and Mary had parted. "Well, did you find the hardware store you were looking for?" Mary asked.

"We did. And a suspect, if you can believe that. Only one person's purchased that combination of tools recently. Doesn't necessarily make him our 'kidnapper', but it's certainly looking good. Not bad work for two hours," John remarked. "So now evidently the idea is to get some more information on this guy. Luca Folino. All we have's the name so far."

"And his credit card number," Sherlock pointed out, keeping his eyes cast downward like the supposedly chastened man he was playing. However, this had the effect of masking his actual distractions. Right now, it was imagining the sound of glass shattering onto marble followed by a back slamming up against a wall. Sherlock swallowed, focusing momentarily on finding his laptop in the mess of Mary's papers. "That's important for narrowing it down. Who knows how many Luca Folinos there might be. This one's well off, in any case, going by the American Express black card."

Sherlock finally located his computer and pulled it out from under a neat stack of papers. Mary began to protest, but it was too late, and her papers were sent sprawling about.  _Lucky that I'm playing a man too caught up in his personal embarrassment to care,_ Sherlock thought, a little bitterly.

"Really?" John said, sitting up a bit straighter at that. "Why would someone with that kind of money need to hold a dead guy hostage?"

It was a good question, and one that Sherlock was mulling over in his mind rather than paying attention to his surroundings as he took a seat and flipped his laptop open. He had already booted his computer up and logged onto the hotel's wifi before he realised that he'd sat down at the kitchen table.

As soon as Sherlock did notice where he was seated, it was like being dragged into a rapid-flowing river and held under. His mind and body were instantly carried back to the supposedly locked away memory that had nonetheless been nipping at the edges of his mind all day, the one that had accosted him so sharply when he'd entered the suite. But now, sitting here in the kitchen, at the table, very much at the scene of the crime as it were, Sherlock felt the memory completely overtaking him. Every little thing was a trigger. The slight grain of the oak table - he could feel it rubbing his thighs. The polished marble floor - he could feel his shoes sliding ever so slightly on it. And her scent. God, he knew Mary would have had the place cleaned right away, so how was it that Sherlock could still smell Irene's perfume and sweat lingering in the vicinity of the table? Was he actually starting to lose his mind? Because it was beginning to feel as though Irene had that effect on him.

Which was not, it turned out, the only effect the sharp memory of their earlier encounter was having. The tightness in his trousers took a few moments to register, foreign as the sensation was to Sherlock. Even when he noticed it, he could scarcely believe it. Thank God for the table now. He breathed deeply, doing his best not to panic, to bring himself back under control. He could calm himself and no one would be the wiser. Sherlock stared deliberately at his computer screen, though he had no idea what he was looking at, and took long, deep breaths. He could feel tiny beads of sweat breaking out on his brow, but otherwise kept his face impassive.

It was at this unfortunate moment that Sherlock realised the scent of Irene's perfume and sweat was coming not from the table or the room but from his own body. Sherlock had changed clothes after their encounter, yes, but he hadn't showered. He'd spent the rest of the day calmly going about his business. It wasn't until now, when he'd begun to perspire, that he could smell her faint scent mingled with his own. It was not unlike the taste of pure cocaine in his bloodstream. Sherlock's heart rate skyrocketed and strengthened. His hands clenched at the edges of the table in some attempt to regain control of his body, but that only served to remind him of the grasp he'd had on Irene's thighs and hips earlier in the day as he'd buried himself inside of her.

Oh God, why were his mind and body conspiring against him like this? These were the sorts of things spot-faced teenagers dealt with, not highly intelligent, incredibly sophisticated grown men.

Sherlock was reduced to actually closing his eyes and picturing himself elsewhere. A morgue. Cold, clinical, not remotely alluring in any way. Molly would be there prattling on about her boyfriend Amir and some dull event they'd been to the previous weekend. God, how much that bored Sherlock, though he had got better at pretending to listen. He'd raise one eyebrow as if interested, and run through diagrams of organic compounds in his mind until Molly finished speaking, then he'd nod or make some inane comment. He could picture that scene, could picture even the compound diagrams now. Yes, this was helping. Sherlock maintained his focus on chemistry even while part of him was aware of his heart rate, and everything else, calming down.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

Sherlock was still in the morgue in his mind, and it took a while for him to hear John. When he did, Sherlock's eyes snapped open to see the doctor giving him one of his typical 'where on earth are you' looks. By his friend's tone, he was repeating Sherlock's name rather than saying it a first time. Sherlock wondered how long he'd been sitting there with his eyes closed. "What?" he asked, a little sharply, his throat much more dry than he expected, which leant a slight crackle to his voice.

If John had been ignoring Sherlock the last few minutes, he wasn't anymore. The detective maintained a stoic expression, but could feel a few drops of cool sweat on his brow betraying him. Sherlock couldn't tell whether or not his cheeks were flushed as he currently was feeling a bit disconnected from his own body. But John was definitely giving him a surprised and suspicious look as he asked with some cheek, "You all right there?"

The mildly suggestive tone, though there was no way John could have actually known the source of Sherlock's discomfort, made Sherlock's mind turn back to its normal steely state of guarded readiness. He even knew that Mary was looking at him now, but wouldn't allow that to affect him this time. Instead he snapped, "Do I have to apologise for thinking over the case?" A beat as he tried to clear his head. "What did you say?"

John looked at him with interest a moment before responding, "Just asked if you had a way to look up Luca Folino's credit card, because I've got three people with that name in my search..."

"What name?" Sherlock asked, his mind still a muddled mess from the hormones that had been raging through both it and his body.

John stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced at Mary as if to confirm he wasn't hearing or seeing things. Sherlock realised he was in a bit of trouble when John's voice pitched up a notch and he replied slowly, dumbfounded, " _Luca Folino._ Our suspect. The one we're supposed to be researching." John exhaled and sat back on the couch, looking at Sherlock suspiciously. "What, did I catch you daydreaming?" he asked, though the humour in his voice was tinged with genuine accusation and just a touch of disbelief.

Sherlock was known for retreating into his mind palace for cases. But he had made a fatal error, and John had clearly realised he had not, in fact, been thinking about the case as he normally would have been when off in his own world. John had caught him out. But Sherlock had no standby excuse for drifting off into sexual fantasy as many people might have. He was simply overcome with a massive desire to escape, take some deep breaths, perhaps dunk himself in cold water. Any nervousness he had feigned earlier with Mary was very real now.

Luckily his body had calmed down enough that he was at least able to make no fuss about getting up from the table and walking over towards the couch. "Sorry, I'm a bit tired. It's the sun here. I've forgotten how draining it can be. Particularly with my complexion," Sherlock explained shortly, and half truthfully at least. Those were the best kinds of lies, though he wasn't sure if John bought it because he didn't look his roommate in the eye. Instead, Sherlock grabbed some hotel stationary and a pen, scribbled down Luca Folino's credit card number that he'd memorised in the shop, and handed it to the doctor before turning back towards his room.

"I'm going to take a shower. Wake myself up. Keep searching," Sherlock said without turning around as he headed straight into his room and shut the door behind him, not caring how strange his behaviour might seem for the moment, only knowing he desperately needed to escape.

The minute the door closed, Sherlock shut his eyes and let out a long but quiet sigh that John wouldn't be able to hear on the other side. Sherlock realised now that he had gravely miscalculated. He'd thought that combining this case with seeing Irene would be convenient. Even perhaps that the endorphin and oxytocin rush he'd get from having sex with her might fuel and sharpen his brainwork in the manner that cocaine used to. That it would be like a shot in the arm, and he could go back to work energized and focused.

That had turned out to be completely and utterly incorrect. Instead Sherlock found himself in the unprecedented situation of being both mentally and physically distracted from his work. Which made little sense to him. He admitted that in the year he'd spent interacting with Irene during his supposed death, in spite of only seeing her a handful of times, he'd thought about her quite a lot. Yes, he admitted, even in a sexual context. But at that stage it had all been theoretical, and therefore rather vague. Wondering what it would feel like to touch her, to be touched by her, how he would respond if that seemingly impossibly unlikely scenario ever became reality. It had been a longing sort of wonder, but he'd had nothing to go on as far as actually imagining it. Particularly given his dislike of pornography and general difficulty with imagination. He was fantastic at theorizing, but only off of concrete information and hints. And in that year of visiting Irene, longing for her, he'd had almost nothing to go on in his fantasies. At least not until she  _had_  touched him, and then that had been an awful, humiliating experience rather than one he wished to call upon as part of a fantasy. Clearly he needed something better.

And yet, when Sherlock had slept with Irene just before he'd returned to London, that memory hadn't proved nearly as distracting in his day to day life as this one from just earlier today evidently was. Oh, Sherlock had created a special room in his mind palace for her, a replica of that seaside hotel in Tel Aviv. And when he had time to himself, he would sometimes go back there, relive what had turned out to be a tender and heartfelt encounter. A few times he'd got physical pleasure out of that memory. But if he were honest with himself, Sherlock would have to say that it was the unique exchange of sentiment that he enjoyed revisiting more than the base physical aspects. Those, he recalled and reminded himself of frequently. In fact, they buoyed him through his recovery, gave him something to look forward to.

But Irene had been far away and he hadn't been sure he'd see her again, or when. They texted, kept in touch, but never planned anything specific. He hoped, but didn't dare to construct any particular hopes that might more easily be struck down, fearing that might impede his recovery. He needed a light at the end of the tunnel, not a GPS to a specific location. But evidently his mind and body weren't entirely in sync on this matter. In fact, when the opportunity arose to take this case, Sherlock realised he hadn't even thought about inviting Irene to meet him there. It had simply happened almost automatically. As if part of his subconscious had been thinking about her in a much more primal manner all along. Had not only needed the thought of her, but had needed  _her._

Sherlock had certainly prepared himself for this possible eventuality in other ways. But those he would describe as research, clinical and detached in nature. With little interest in the ridiculous exaggerations of pornography, he instead he found himself wondering about some of the more scientific aspects of sexual relationships: positions and their relationship to anatomy, hormonal response cycles, evolutionary reasons for 'turn ons'. But Sherlock had never been physically and psychologically carried away as he just was by merely sitting in a kitchen. Evidently theorizing about having sex with Irene and actually having sex with Irene were indeed two very different things. He'd thought that the latter would be just as easy to compartmentalise as the former, but that clearly wasn't the case.

No, Sherlock realised as he pushed away from the door and forced himself towards the washroom, this was turning out to be both an extremely pleasant and extremely dangerous mistake. How he could have been so careless as to allow Irene to seduce him in his own hotel suite, which Mary and John were both sharing and had a key to, he couldn't fathom. Irene always did have the power to switch off incredibly vital portions of his brain. He believed her when she said she was sorry for the outcome. But  _she_ wasn't the one sitting there having to fight a treacherous body and mind.

The disorganised, overwhelming rush of thoughts was becoming too much for Sherlock to handle. By the time he reached the shower, sluggishly stripped off his clothing, and stepped inside, he felt as if he were living someone else's life. He had no idea what the solution was. To stop seeing Irene? Something within him rebelled against that thought instantly. To see Irene  _more_? The speed with which his mind and body cried ' _Yes!'_  to that one made him somewhat suspicious of that solution. And all the while he was confined to hoping that Mary kept quiet about what she believed his secret to be, that her loyalty to him was great enough that she'd keep something that monumental from her fiancé.

It was simply too many elements for Sherlock to have out of his control. He reached out and turned the shower on, cold. He closed his eyes and focused on letting the freezing water shock his brain and body into some kind of reasonable, normal mode.

* * *

The second Sherlock's door closed behind him, Mary felt John twist around on the couch to face her. She was looking down at a page of her dissertation, trying very hard not to involve herself. It had been clear from the second Sherlock walked in that he was incredibly embarrassed and uncomfortable being in here with her after what had happened earlier in the day. Not to mention the anxiety he must feel over whether Mary would tell John what had happened. She recalled the look on Sherlock's face when he'd insisted that she couldn't tell John. That kind of desperation was hard to fake. Whatever the reality was, Sherlock was clearly convinced that if John knew he'd been sleeping with a prostitute, it would have horrible consequences. Mary wasn't actually certain that was true, but it hardly mattered. Sherlock had been visibly, massively shaken just from the possibility hanging in the air.

Mary could only do her best not to make it worse by staying quiet and not staring at Sherlock. Still, even in glancing up at him she'd seen how distracted he was. How uncharacteristically unnerved. Sherlock's escape from the room had relieved a bit of the tension. But now John was not about to let the incident go.

"What the hell was that?" he asked incredulously, looking at Mary as if wanting confirmation that he wasn't losing his mind.

Mary squirmed a bit, setting her paper down on her lap as she repositioned herself to face away from John. "Sherlock's never all here, is he? I didn't think it seemed unusual."

"He forgot the name of our suspect," John pointed out, scooting closer to Mary even as she pivoted away from him. "The whole reason we came back here was to research this guy, to get information on him. And Sherlock  _forgot his name?_ **"** John shook his head, setting his laptop aside, now turning to rest his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward and rubbed his eyes with both hands.

As much as Mary cared about protecting Sherlock's feelings, she certainly couldn't be unaffected by her own fiancé's. She set her papers down slowly and asked, "What is it?" There was clearly something John wasn't saying, and somewhere deep in her gut Mary knew precisely what it was.

Finally, John sat up straighter, sighed, and began haltingly, "He's been fine. Working, managing the stress, going to therapy. Even after everything he went through, he's basically been himself the last six months. Or even an improved version of himself, since I thought we'd got closer and more honest with each another after everything..." John paused. Mary knew what he was thinking about: Sherlock's faked death, return to life only to deal with relapsed drug addiction, and near death again. It had all seemed to draw Sherlock and John into a close-knit, brotherly understanding. For Sherlock to now withhold important information from John... well, Mary knew her fiancé wasn't above being hurt or frustrated by something like that. What was more, it certainly seemed to have made him suspicious.

John continued, "The second he got a chance to come here, he jumped at it. And then he was suggesting we go off on our own. So he could have all that time alone. And now, the way he's acting..." John looked over at Mary gravely, and now she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what he was getting at. There was only one subject about Sherlock that gave John that look in his eyes.

"No," Mary jumped in, before John said any more. She couldn't let John worry about something that wasn't true, nor could she let Sherlock's progress in this area be brought into question. "He's clean, John."

"He has been," John agreed quietly. "Back home. But why was he suddenly so eager to come overseas? And there's only one thing I've ever seen that could interfere with Sherlock's concentration like that." He steepled his hands in front of his mouth. Then, with a grimace, he said, "I have to ask him."

Mary instinctively reached out for John's nearest hand, pulling it down to her lap and clutching it tightly. "You can't do that, John. You really can't," she said evenly, commandingly. He looked at her in mild surprise. "It's just your imagination." John pulled his hand back, looking sceptical. "I was here too. I saw what you saw," she pointed out. "I think you're overreacting. I know you're concerned about him, and it's good that you care about his welfare. But you can't jump at every little potential slip. You did that the whole first month he was going through rehab."

"And I haven't since then," John pointed out. "But just now, he was clearly  _physically_ distracted as well as mentally. You had to have noticed that. Why are you trying to play this down?" He studied her carefully, not really accusingly though Mary in her own mind felt it might as well have been. She felt guilty enough about hiding such a massive revelation about Sherlock from John. But she couldn't betray Sherlock's trust in her. Still, John clearly realised she was holding something back. Mary knew he wouldn't push her on it. But she still felt awful knowing that he was aware of the fact that she was hiding something from him.

But perhaps she could use it to her advantage. Sitting up tall, Mary looked John steadily in the eye as she said evenly, "John, you have to trust me on this."

"I trust you," he replied, honestly, then chewed his lip a moment before adding, "But it doesn't matter how much I care about him or how deeply I know he cares about me. I've seen the sort of deception he's capable of when it suits his needs, and I wish I didn't feel this way but... No matter how hard I try, after everything that happened, I'm sorry," John took a breath before finishing, stolidly, his eyes grave and features set, "I'm never going to completely trust Sherlock."

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter; I got into another awkward situation where if I'd left this connected to the next scene it would have made for an extremely long chapter and I think some of the details would have got lost along the way. I'll be posting the next chapter very soon since it's already done, I just wanted to let this scene have its own space to breathe because it's setting up some important plot bits.

It had taken the better part of the evening, but Sherlock and John had eventually gathered a fairly comprehensive file on Luca Folino. As it turned out, he was the son of Nicolo Folino, the owner of one of the country's largest olive oil production companies. Evidently this was something that could make one extremely rich in Italy, which baffled John a bit. Why precisely was this Luca Folino, who according to what they could find was about 25 and looked to be an extremely typical Italian playboy, in need of five million euros? His first instinct was that maybe someone had simply stolen the rich kid's credit card, but he and Sherlock had gone back to the shop just before it closed to show the owner a photo of Luca to confirm that he was indeed the one who'd made the purchase.

A kid with no credit limit and he was holding Galileo hostage for five million euros why exactly? Of course, John hadn't forgotten Ted Sholto, who in spite of the fortune he was inheriting from his father's estate had still desired more in order to feed his drug habit. Could this Luca Folino be in a similar situation, cast out by his own family for his transgressions? And who was his paramedic accomplice?

John had tried posing these questions to Sherlock, but the detective had simply asserted that they were irrelevant. The only thing that currently mattered, according to Sherlock's plan, which John was feeling leery of, was that they now had the power to threaten Luca with public humiliation and exposure unless he returned Galileo's body to the church. His being connected to a family of prominence was excellent news on this account. Even if he didn't care about his own reputation, surely someone in his family would very much mind being connected to the desecration of a famous tomb in a very Catholic country, Sherlock had reasoned. John saw the logic in it. There was always  _logic_ in Sherlock's plans, but that didn't mean John was always comfortable with them. Still, Sherlock was the boss. So here they were, at noon the next day, once again crossing the open piazza leading up to Santa Croce.

"Blackmail. You really think a priest is going to go for that?" John asked, sceptically.

"It's his only option. Particularly considering the lack of cooperation from the authorities," Sherlock noted bitterly. John eyed his friend carefully, as he had been trying to do subtly all morning. Though he'd promised Mary he wouldn't ask Sherlock directly if he was using cocaine again, that didn't mean he couldn't look for the signs. But Sherlock's eyes were clear and his stride confident as he led the way into the church.

Father Giordano greeted them as soon as they entered. He'd clearly been waiting for them. "Buongiorno signori," the rather timid, anxious man said, taking their hands quickly, then jumping right to the point. "Your message said you had found the criminals?"

"We've identified one of them. We'd be able to identify the other if the police would give us access to the ZTL checkpoint footage from the night of the break-in. Do you have friends in the police force?" Sherlock asked, insistent and short as always.

"Detective Rinaldi said he was doing everything he could and to call him if I had any more information," the priest replied, clearly searching for a way to be helpful. "Perhaps I could contact him and see what he can do?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, Rinaldi is the problem rather than the solution. Never mind," he said with a wave of his hand, then stepped closer to the priest. "The point is, we know who one of the criminals is, and more importantly who his connections are. His name is Luca Folino."

"Sì, the olive oil company?" Father Giordano replied. Evidently this family was well enough known for public humiliation to matter, then, John noted. That could be good for Sherlock's plan.

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed. "And I highly doubt young Folino wants this incident and his face splashed across Italy's imaginative array of tabloids. Not to mention the attention that a trial and sentencing would garner for himself and his family. According to my research, he's been living off the family trust and doing little else but spending the money. Perhaps he wasted his trust fund. Whatever the motivation, Italians remain at least nominally loyal to the Catholic church and desecration combined with the removal of one of Italy's greatest thinkers from his tomb makes for a rather lurid tale, all things considered."

John could sense Father Giordano's hesitation, and couldn't help sharing in it. The priest asked carefully, "And you think this might help us in some way?"

"No. I  _know_ it's the only way to get Galileo's body back without shelling out any money, which is the nearly impossible task you've given me," Sherlock replied cooly. "Let's set aside all the righteous indignation for a moment and consider - does the church actually want to give any money to these criminals? To fund whatever enterprise they might be running?"

"Of course not," the priest affirmed, sounding uncertain, his will quickly crumbling. He looked vexed, and John could sympathise. Dragging someone's name through the mud publicly was a nasty business, even if they were a criminal. When Sherlock had presented this plan to him, it had been all John could do to bite back a comment about Sherlock's own negative experiences with the tabloid press. He'd conceded that he couldn't think of another way to go about this.

"Detective Rinaldi will not cooperate with me, nor does he have any leads whatsoever of his own." Sherlock gazed at the nervous priest steadily, his eyes cool and grey like a statue's. Whatever discomfiture John had seen in Sherlock the night before had completely evaporated. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe John was just imagining things.

The priest swallowed, clearly considering Sherlock's proposition. The detective continued, "The only way to recover the body is to contact Luca Folino, tell him that we know who he is, and tell him that if he does not return the body, intact to the church at this evening, we will contact every tabloid in the country with this story and tomorrow his picture will be featured in every newsstand from Milan to Palermo."

The little narthex they were huddled in grew very still. A few visitors slipped by, completely unaware of the conversation happening off to the side. Father Giordano ran a hand over his mouth, looking down in contemplation as he considered what Sherlock had said. After a few moments, he closed his eyes, sighed, then nodded without looking up. John felt bad for the priest having to make such a difficult decision.

Sherlock, on the other hand, perked up instantly, his intense insistency dissolving into the chipper good-natured tone he took on when he was absolutely sure of himself. "Good," he said, stepping back from the priest. "I expected that would be your decision, so I've already contacted Mr. Folino to let him know that he and his paramedic accomplice ought to meet us here at 9pm. That should be ample time for them to return to the city with the body in the event that they've already left or hidden it away somewhere difficult to retrieve. I've assured him there will be no police involvement. Only way to persuade him we are solely interested in recovering the body. Which is, in fact, the case." The detective turned and made his way towards the door.

John gave the priest an apologetic look, assuring him silently that  _he_ hadn't realised Sherlock had already contacted Luca either. But John was too accustomed to this sort of behavior to be truly shocked. Instead, he was oddly filled with a sort of fondness for his friend's bizarre way of handling things as he followed Sherlock out the front door. He couldn't even really bring himself to be mad, instead only making it to incredulous as he caught up with his friend on the front steps of the church. "Why even ask for his permission if you'd already done it?" he inquired, truly wanting to understand how Sherlock's brain worked sometimes.

"Now he's complicit in the plan. Whether or not it would have proceeded without him, he did in fact agree to it," Sherlock pointed out. "The church can't simply blame us for the supposed immorality."

"Well..." John said with a shake of his head, squinting against the bright midday sun. As usual, once Sherlock explained his logic, it made perfect sense. John just never would have thought of it on his own. "What's on the agenda for the next nine hours, then? We prepare for this meeting somehow?"

But Sherlock merely shrugged. "Either Luca and his accomplice show up with the body or they don't and we make good on our promise to release our file to the press," Sherlock replied. "Either way, there's nothing more to do for the moment. I'd say you're once again doomed to enjoy Florence with your fiancée."

John felt that uncomfortable twisting in his stomach once again, that tingling feeling in the back of his brain. Regardless of what Mary had told him, no matter how much she assured him that there was no way Sherlock was running off to do drugs, John could  _feel_ that Sherlock was lying to him. Trying to get rid of him. The doctor clenched his hands, hoping his anxiety wouldn't show elsewhere (though hiding from Sherlock was no easy task). Casually, he said, "Yeah, but what about enjoying it with my best mate? There are loads of galleries and historical museums that you'd probably be interested in. We could visit some of those."

"Perhaps later, yes," Sherlock agreed, rather quickly John thought. Explaining further, Sherlock said, "When I was at the university lab I saw that there's a lecture this afternoon at their Natural History Museum on their 7,000 samples of various wood types and their grains. It sounded interesting to me but I presumed it wasn't the sort of thing  _you_ came to Italy for. Besides," Sherlock added, with a touch of exasperation, "you and Mary are always so shy about having sex when I'm around, and I'd assumed that at some point you'd like to actually enjoy the lavish romantic hotel accommodations. I can find plenty to do for the day. You and I can visit those museums once the case is over."

Damn him. That was a completely plausible explanation: a lecture that John bought Sherlock would actually be interested in and which he of course would want to avoid in lieu of spending time with Mary. And then he'd had to throw in their recent conversation about John and Mary's desire for private intimacy. It all sounded perfect, which was precisely the problem. It was so well  _crafted._ There was nothing suspicious for John to even comment on or question. He gritted his teeth. "Fine. You go to your lecture. But we ought to at least all meet up for dinner together, don't you think? Enjoy Florence at night?"

"If you two can pull yourselves out of the bedroom," Sherlock replied with a slight huff.

John shifted uncomfortably. He knew Sherlock was mostly joking, but damned if the man weren't right about John's English sensibilities on this issue. He'd never really cared that much about privacy when he'd been dating, but this wasn't just some woman, it was  _Mary_. She was going to be his wife, and he felt strangely protective of their intimacy. They weren't just shagging, they were making love and sharing important private moments. Having that belittled was sometimes irritating. "We have a lot of things we'd like to do while we're here," John replied tightly, "And frankly what we do in the bedroom and how often we do it or when- that's our business, not yours."

Sherlock gave him a slightly guarded, searching look for a moment, almost as if a little suspicious. John had no idea what to make of that. What did Sherlock have to suspect  _him_  of? "Believe me, we're entirely in agreement," Sherlock said. Then he added, "I have to get to the university. I'll be in touch about later. But I won't be surprised if you have to cancel dinner."

Sherlock was already backpedaling across the piazza, giving John no real choice in the matter. What could he do? Follow his friend's every move all day to see where he actually went? Confront him directly about the drugs? That was the only possible thing John could do right now, in this moment, before Sherlock disappeared down a far alleyway to God knew where. And he might have, had he not heard Mary's voice in his head begging him not to ask Sherlock about it. To trust her. She must actually know something about what was going on with Sherlock. John knew he couldn't trust his friend, but he had to trust his fiancée. She'd never given him any reason not to. So he did nothing more than give Sherlock a weak wave goodbye before letting out a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

John turned back in the direction of their hotel, determined to focus as much as possible on enjoying the present time with Mary in this lovely city. Determined to ignore what he knew to be Sherlock's lies.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The St. Regis Hotel was right on the Arno river, with rooms overlooking the Ponte Vecchio and sporting as much upscale Florentine style and class as one could buy. A Grand Deluxe suite had run about £1,200 a night, a number Sherlock had not even blinked an eye at when he'd booked the room with the Cayman Islands bank account he knew neither John nor Mycroft were aware he had. After all, he was getting paid an exorbitant amount by the church simply to recover some astronomer's bones, and the money was being spent on a good cause. Namely, that of placing Irene in the sort of high class accommodations Sherlock felt suited her and, he might even say, she deserved. Even though they hadn't wound up using it the previous day, Sherlock had made sure to text Irene the room details the night before. He wouldn't have her staying at some second rate hotel. This was how he had planned it, how it ought to be.

Most of all, as he exited the lift and headed down the hallway lined with refined artwork and carefully chosen antique furniture, Sherlock simply felt that this was the sort of place Irene belonged in his mind. In spite of everything that had passed between them when he'd been using her flat to shoot up, not to mention the stigma associated with her profession, he still associated Irene with elegance and high society.

As Sherlock reached room 208 and raised his hand to wrap on the door, he was momentarily reminded of all the times he'd wound up practically begging at the door to her flat in Tel Aviv, desperate for whatever small amount of human connection she could provide him. He had known even then how pathetic he was both in appearance and in action. The drug use combined with the hazards of trailing Moriarty's network around the world had left him haggard in both mind and body. But she had been quite literally the only person in the world he could speak to, even if it meant allowing her to see him at his most degraded and desperate.

That was a version of him he could never erase from her mind. She would always know that was part of him, a depth he was capable of reaching. And that gave him momentary pause. Sherlock's fist hovered just above the door a moment as he willed that association away. Instead, he reminded himself of the response she'd had to him only yesterday. Not only what she'd said or done, but the way her body had responded to him, involuntarily communicating her desire for him. A shiver ran through him at the memory. There had been no misinterpreting  _that_.

Of course, now Sherlock felt slightly tense for a different reason. Determined to remain collected, he drew a breath and wrapped on the door.

A moment later, the door opened slowly to reveal Irene, hair done up loosely, lips a light shade of red, a fitted knee-length dress in a matching shade. She was wearing heels and thus her eyes were several inches closer to Sherlock's natural eye-line than usual, catching his gaze after it swept over her body and settled back on her face. She gave one of her small, knowing smiles. "Mr. Holmes. Hardly past noon and already done with your work until 9pm. You're either quite the overachiever or you had a considerable incentive to work quickly." She arched a playful eyebrow at him.

In the past, such a flirtation might have thrown him. But Sherlock recalled that just yesterday he'd had this woman shaking beneath his grip and gasping his name in ecstasy. The memory sent a small chill down his spine, emboldening him considerably. He stepped further inside, forcing Irene to backtrack a bit as he shut the door. All the while, he maintained eye contact. "And you've had a manicure and facial exfoliating treatment this morning, not to mention spending a considerable amount of time on your complimentary makeup, hair, and wardrobe," Sherlock pointed out in a challenging voice, with an arched eyebrow to match hers.

Irene looked up at him in momentary surprise, which quickly faded as the small smile on her face turned into a full-blown grin, followed by a pleasant short laugh. She seemed genuinely taken off guard by his confident demeanour, but entirely pleased. "A fair deduction," Irene admitted with a sparkle in her eye. She studied him for a moment, then leaned up and gave him a quick, firm kiss on the lips before turning and leading the way into the suite.

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen to the spot. That particular kiss threw him. He'd considered before how much could be conveyed through such physical acts rather than through verbal communication, and Sherlock had since then become much more aware of such gestures between other people as well. And  _that_ sort of kiss - quick, as if expressing something understood rather than promised - was definitely not one Irene had given him before. In fact, it was the sort of kiss John and Mary regularly exchanged to show their affection for one another. Sherlock was almost more thrown by that than he had been by Irene materialising on his bed the day before. He had deciphered the message but wasn't quite sure how to respond.

Sherlock settled for following Irene into the sitting room of the suite, taking in the frescoes on the walls and the fine upholstery on the breakfast table seats and sofa as a means of distracting himself. The décor was indeed pleasant and distinctly reminiscent of the Florentine renaissance. He noted the silver tea tray sitting on the end table beside the sofa and surmised that the hotel's butler had brought it up along with a copy of  _Le Monde_ from that morning. "Playing your identity fully, I see," Sherlock noted, gesturing to the paper. When he'd texted Irene about the hotel, he'd been sure to note that she was booked as Mademoiselle Baudin from Caen.

"Yes, I appreciated you choosing French over Italian as my nationality, considering my Italian is limited and certainly wouldn't fool anyone here into thinking I was a native," Irene said as she headed towards the doorway to the bedroom.

"Luckily it was good enough to fool Mary," Sherlock remarked tightly, his whole body tensing along with his voice.

At that, Irene stopped, turning around in the doorway to look back at Sherlock, who had come to a halt beside the couch. Her expression softened. "I'm sorry. You'd put precautions in place and I ignored them. Breaking rules is a bad habit of mine." She looked genuinely chagrined rather than proud of this particular instance of misbehaving, though Sherlock knew she was not solely to blame. It was a side of Irene he wasn't sure anyone else had seen, at least not in a very long time. It had certainly taken her a long time and numerous painful experiences on his part for her to open it up to him.

In truth, Sherlock had been somewhat apprehensive that all that had transpired between them to get both of them to that stage might have been erased with time. Oh, obviously going on yesterday's activities they were both physically open to one another. But sentiments... well, Sherlock had realised already that this arena had not in fact closed for him. He had been worried that it might have for Irene, though. Yes, she'd let the mask slip a few times the day before, but that was in the heat of passion. And such slips had occurred in between moments of cool detachment during their time in Tel Aviv. Once those moments ended, Sherlock never felt quite sure he would see that side of her again. Yet there it was, a look of genuine concern on her face as she asked, "I take it Mary's kept quiet so far?"

Sherlock felt a fair amount of relief based on Irene's demeanour and reaction. She certainly seemed to care about him still. All indications pointed to that. Still, he felt it prudent to always reign in contentment. Much less chance of falling victim to the negative side of sentiment that way, should things take a turn for the worse, which in his experience they usually did in some way. "Yes," Sherlock affirmed. "John's suspicious, but Mary obviously hasn't told him anything, or we'd have a much bigger problem."

"Which hopefully at this stage means she won't," Irene ventured. "Do you think she will?"

Sherlock considered that a moment. He'd known and lived with Mary for six months, but he found her still somewhat difficult to understand. Her way of looking at the world, her sentimentality and priorities were so different from Sherlock's that she could be hard for him to predict. But he did know how much she cared about her field of work. Finally he said, "No. I'm not certain, but I don't think she will. She doesn't want to keep it from John, but I believe she feels I'm in grave need of her confidence. Failing that, her notion of doctor-patient confidentiality might help her feel bound by oath to keep it secret."

"Good," Irene said with a small nod. She took a few steps closer to him, and Sherlock was amazed at how her proximity seemed to instantly alter his blood chemistry. A warm sensation flooded his skin. He felt as if he were being hypnotised. When Irene reached him, she put a hand on his chest and the warm feeling magnified tenfold as she said quietly, "But it's out of our control. What _is_ in our control are nine hours of a perfectly beautiful day. We have a lot of catching up to do," she tugged playfully at his shirt front and added, with a smile, "in every possible way."

Sherlock gave a murmur of agreement and, without really deciding to, leaned down and kissed Irene slowly. She reciprocated in kind, with leisurely and tender movements and small but strong hands slipping down the front of his shirt. It was yet another sort of kiss, Sherlock noted, this time acknowledging the many months they had spent apart. He had desired her company - her wit, her conversation, the rare synchronous mind to his - just as much as her body. In fact, her mind and body were inseparable to him, mingled together so that desire for one always included desire for the other. What he desired was simply... her. And this kiss conveyed that much more clearly than their frantic shagging the day before had. It calmed a few of his reservations about where they stood, at least a bit. Sherlock and Irene both pulled back for air at the same time, their faces remaining close, eyes opening to find the other staring back unapologetically. They were both breathless. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock's heart had evidently started to hammer.

"Mmm," Irene hummed, breaking the silence and taking a half step backwards. "As an attempt at setting aside our worries, that's not a bad start." She paused, giving him an appraising look. "Do you drink?" she asked, her tone lightening.

At first the question puzzled him. Then he realised what she was getting at, and wrinkled his nose. "Of course I do. I'm not in NA, thank God. Dr. Sayers didn't force me to abide by their rules. And a glass of wine has never remotely tempted me to use drugs."

"I thought as much," Irene replied, stepping back and holding a hand up to signal that he should wait there. She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged a moment later with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. "This was left here this morning, compliments of the hotel. I expect they assume anyone spending this much money on a suite is celebrating something."

"Are we?" Sherlock asked, intentionally keeping his tone more flippant than grave, lest he reveal his anxieties.

"I'd say so," Irene said as she circled around and took a seat on the sofa, placing the glasses on the coffee table. She pressed on the edge of the cork until it shot off with a loud  _pop!._ She deftly kept the suds from spilling onto her dress as she poured two glasses of champagne.

Sherlock took a seat beside Irene, feeling as though he could sense the body heat radiating off of her even though he knew at this proximity that was impossible. Irene turned towards him as she handed him a glass and lifted her own. "Six months of being clean. Seeing one another again. Take your pick." Then she clinked her glass against his and took a drink. Sherlock watched the way her lips wrapped around the edge of the glass, the line of her throat as she swallowed, and was suddenly feeling rather warm. Good God, was he really becoming one of those typical men with prurient minds capable of being triggered by anything? The notion disgusted him, though, in spite of himself, the actual images in his mind certainly didn't. He took a rather large gulp of his own champagne to calm himself. Irene continued, "Personally I'm pleased about all of it. And I don't know about you, but I think we can throw in breaking six months of abstinence in spectacular fashion. Even if the consequences weren't as pleasant."

Sherlock was about to take another sip of his drink, but paused with the glass halfway to his lips. "Abstinence?" he asked uncertainly.

"Well," Irene said with a small smile, "at least in the sense of not having had sex with someone. I confess to having had many imaginative evenings on my own with you as the star."

Sherlock squirmed a bit at that, feeling himself reddening around the ears. Which was ridiculous. He oughtn't be embarrassed about such things. It was rather juvenile. But in this area  _he_  wasrather juvenile. This portion of his mind and body had lain mostly dormant since his adolescent years, and even then he'd never acted much on his hormonal urges even for self-pleasure. He'd given up on the whole area early on in uni, swapped out any burgeoning attempts at sexual pursuits for drugs, which were much less complicated and much easier to come by. But none of the girls he'd had a passing curiosity about at uni had done  _this_  to him. If they had, he wouldn't have been able to relegate his body to 'transport' quite so hastily. Of course, that was because none of them were as brilliant, as singularly unique and clever, as easily able to slice through convention and façade as she was. None of those women had been anything close to the Woman. It was because of who she was that he even paid any attention to the way she looked, sounded, smelled, tasted...

He shuddered a little. Yes, Irene was the sole person who'd ever been able to make his body and mind betray him in this way, of whom he could not help thinking, and his thoughts of whom he couldn't simply push away when they did arise. Moreover, he'd thought of her frequently, both abstractly and specifically. He'd even admit to having acted on those thoughts physically once in a while. But it hadn't really occurred to him that he'd been the fuel for her own, most likely much more frequent and explicit fantasies. What did she imagine him doing to her? What did she imagine he was  _capable_  of doing? Sherlock's head was spinning now with the unconsidered and frankly daunting possibilities.

The real thing that had caused Sherlock's mouth to go dry, though, was her insistence that she'd been otherwise abstinent. That shocked him, and it took him a moment to recuperate enough to sputter, "I assumed..."

"You assumed," Irene drawled, giving him a matter-of-fact stare, "that once you were gone I'd be sleeping with whomever I wished." Not that she needed his confirmation, as she'd clearly guessed what he meant by his reaction, but Sherlock nodded. Irene frowned slightly. "Why did you make that assumption?"

Sherlock looked back steadily, regaining a bit of his normal straightforward manner. "You're a highly sensual woman with limitless options and a strong sex drive. I presumed you'd continue to require an outlet for that. I certainly didn't think I had your exclusive attention."

Irene's brow furrowed as she eyed him carefully. "So you thought all this time that I was sleeping with other people and you didn't care?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I never said I didn't care," he replied carefully. Because that certainly wasn't the case. It had simply seemed like a fact out of his control and therefore not worth worrying over. "But I didn't ask you to do that."

"No," Irene agreed, "you didn't. And yet I did it anyway. What does that tell you?" Before he could answer, she cut in, "And don't just say you're not very good at this sort of thing. You're clever enough to deduce where my emotions are concerned. You've got enough prior experience with me to go on." Sherlock considered what she meant. Back in Tel Aviv, Irene had made it clear that she'd had feelings for him for quite a long time, just as he had for her. Though they'd been necessarily parted, she'd urged him to keep in touch. She'd even offered to come with him and help with his cocaine detox, something ultimately he hadn't wanted to share with anyone, not even someone who had seen him at the lowest points of his addiction.

Yes, it was clear that she had strong sentiments for him, much like the ones he had for her. But he had assumed that time and distance would lessen them. But if Irene Adler, of all people, had felt something for him strong enough to give up sleeping with anyone for six months, well... Sherlock's eyebrows raised at the realisation of just how serious she was about this, about him. He looked at Irene with surprise and uncertainty.

Irene for her part nodded in affirmation, which made Sherlock's world feel like it was spinning a bit. Even though he knew Irene had feelings for him, he'd always operated on the unspoken assumption that his for her were stronger. That he could never ask her to make any kind of commitment to him. But she had clearly already made one of her own accord.

"Ah, there, you see. You did figure it out," Irene said. She set her champagne glass down on the table and scooted closer to him. "My feelings haven't changed a bit, even though I'm sure you assumed they would have. That I would have moved on to a new 'conquest', as if you were ever that." She gave him a pointed look tinged with softness, and though his expression remained guarded and even, he felt as if she were looking through him and seeing his thoughts despite them not even showing up on his face. How did she do that? "As wonderful as communication via kissing and sex is, once in a while words are actually helpful. And I know this is especially uncomfortable for you, so let's just get it out of the way up front."

Sherlock was now fairly filled with trepidation. This was all taking such an unexpected direction. He'd come over here aching for sexual fulfilment and instead was met with... whatever this was. Something he hadn't wanted, or something he hadn't dared to want? "Well if you must say something uncomfortable, by all means, drag it out as much as possible," Sherlock replied with a combination of irritation and flat out confusion. It seemed that whatever he expected from Irene, he got the exact opposite. At least yesterday there'd been a while there where he'd been the one in control. Sherlock drained the rest of his champagne.

Sitting up straight, Irene began, "My feelings for you haven't changed, and I know yours haven't either. Don't bother denying that you know what I'm talking about. In fact if anything the distance and time may have made those feelings stronger. And while neither of us would ever want a standard, soppy relationship, at this stage we also wouldn't be content with a purely sexual, no-strings attached sort of arrangement either."

"We wouldn't," Sherlock stated glibly, highly sceptical of her presumptuous tone. Even though he did find Irene far too remarkable to simply regard as some sort of sexual object, he wasn't foolish enough to have ever presumed he could have any kind of relationship with her. Not because it was undesirable so much as unattainable. He was trying to find a way to say that without sounding pathetic when Irene cut in.

"Well,  _you'd_ be willing to take whatever I gave you. Because you care deeply about me and have never cared about anyone else this way, and regardless of whether I reciprocate, you'd like to experience as much of these feelings - both emotional and physical - as you can. And not just because you feel it gives you insight for your work." Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face and his mouth go slightly slack. So  _that's_ what it was like to be on the other end of one of his own deductions, having your thoughts ripped directly from your head and vocalised by another person before you'd had a chance to spin them into your own words. Of course only Irene could match him there.

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock didn't succeed in keeping the expression of confirmation off his face, though thankfully Irene didn't look to be gloating at having correctly guessed his thoughts (which was far better than could be said of him in situations like hers). Instead she looked mildly concerned. "While I appreciate that level of sentiment and desire being aimed in my direction, not to mention the singular status I hold with you, I somewhat resent the implication of your line of thinking." She set her champagne glass down and leaned forward. "Did you really think after all we'd been through that I was interested in using you like that?"

Sherlock hesitated, not sure what to say. Why was she throwing all of this at him without any warning? When he realised that he had no time to think of a convincing series of half-truths to give her, he felt he'd probably answered his own question. Of course Irene knew precisely how to blindside him and get the most honest answers out of him. Dammit. Accepting the inevitable, Sherlock's shoulders slumped a little and he replied evenly, though his tone was a touch softened, "I didn't think you'd see it that way. I had no idea what you would be interested in, though you made it fairly clear yesterday that sex was still very much on the table."

She grinned at him. "Quite literally," she said coyly. He didn't actually mean it that way, but the memory did send a pleasant buzz through his body nonetheless. Irene shifted. "I do make a bad habit of being mysterious on certain occasions when I needn't be. Which is precisely why I wanted to have this conversation now rather than having it hang over our heads, potentially spoiling some perfectly good sex while we're here. So I'll be clear." Irene put a hand on Sherlock's knee and looked him evenly in the eye. His breathing slowed, his pulse pounded loudly in his neck, and his world seemed to collapse to a pinpoint, his attention all on her. He suspected that was the idea. Irene was the only thing in his world as she began to speak deliberately.

"I'm interested in a monogamous relationship, in being involved both sexuality and emotionally. There's no end date on this in my mind, though I'm also not interested in a goal of marriage or children or anything of that sort." Sherlock blanched and had an instant reaction of feeling a little queasy just at the mention of such things. Irene gave him a mildly apologetic look for having even brought that up and squeezed his knee in reassurance that she felt the same as he, then continued, "Given our circumstances, we may not be able to see each other with consistent regularity. But I'm open to coming to meet you whenever and wherever you like. Every few weekends in France or Spain, perhaps. You can call it 'seeing one another' or 'dating' or 'being together', or whatever is most convenient and easily reconcilable with your self image. But I think we both have to acknowledge, with a large dose of humility, that in spite of all our protestations and self-declared resistance to sentiment, this is where we've wound up. With deep mutual feelings for one another and no desire to become involved with anyone else. Given that reality, this seems the only logical course of action. Do you agree?"

Sherlock could do nothing but stare. It was a long moment before he could even breathe. His brain seemed to have ground to a halt, clearly not computing what he was hearing correctly. He blinked. No, his eyes were still working and this was most certainly real. He could feel Irene's hand on his knee, hear her shallow breathing, smell her faint perfume, and had just seen her lips moving as he'd heard all those words. She'd definitely said them. He just wasn't... he couldn't quite understand. Nothing in his 37 years of life served as a precedent for this. He hadn't even really allowed himself to entertain these notions about Irene in his own mind because they seemed so far-flung, so childishly romantic as not to warrant consideration. He hadn't prepared a response to such a proposal, verbal or otherwise, because such a proposal was absolutely never going to be made by either party, he'd been certain.

It was such a ridiculous proposal that Sherlock's highly confused, malfunctioning mind's first response was actually to think of a whole series of reasons why her proposal  _wouldn't_ work. He was the one who had longed for a more consistent type of connection to her for so long, and yet this sounded ridiculous even to Sherlock. But as he tried to think of some drawback to point out, his mouth kept opening only to shut again once he realised Irene had already anticipated and parried each concern without ever having given him a chance to object and be contrary about it. For once in his life Sherlock was truly dumbfounded. Irene seemed to have figured out not only this situation but  _him_ precisely.

And the damndest part of it was that when he considered this, the fact that she could do this didn't exactly unnerve him anymore. Instead, it oddly filled him with a strange sense of belonging. Something he felt with exceeding rarity. And Irene made him feel he belonged in a different way than John did. Obviously, for sexual reasons. But also because he truly considered her his intellectual peer. No, she didn't share his same knowledge base, but her natural capacity, her natural intelligence was, he admitted, nearly equal to his own. And she had her own libraries of knowledge, much of which was foreign to him. In fact, nearly every area of knowledge or experience Sherlock lacked - politics, current events, all manner of desires, personal motives, interpersonal interactions - all of them were Irene's areas of unparalleled expertise and facility. It was almost as though he and she were two halves of one whole and wholly remarkable person. He wondered if there were any problem, case, or challenge the two of them could not handle if working in concert with one another. Yes, he belonged with her, in every sense.

But how on earth had they actually wound up  _here_? Now the word  **'** _dating'_ had quite seriously entered a conversation Sherlock Holmes was having with a woman with whom he was intimately involved. It was enough to make his brain nearly short-circuit. That couldn't possibly be what he wanted, could it? That didn't sound at all like him. In fact that was something he had scoffed at and pushed away consistently since he'd given up on the difficult and time-consuming business of romance and desire all the way back in uni, when he'd abandoned what little effort he'd put into it in favour of allocating his time and energy to the less complicated and more immediately gratifying arenas of the work and the drugs instead.

And he'd been quite happy that way, married to his work. Well, the drugs made him less truly happy and he was glad to be rid of those. Sherlock had no intention of ever going back to that old lover. Did that mean there was now a vacant space in his mind for  _dating?_  When he set aside the terminology and social conventions, when he actually considered what Irene had so directly laid out, Sherlock realised her arguments were entirely sound. That arrangement  _was_ precisely what he wanted, she'd just articulated it better than he could have. And if it was what she wanted as well, then there was really only one way to respond to that.

Sherlock barely felt attached to his own body at this point. He reached over to the table and poured himself another glass of champagne, then drew a deep breath through his nose and lifted the glass to his lips. Without hesitation, he downed the whole drink, then gripped the stem of the glass tightly in his hand. The warm sensation of alcohol in the back of his throat and down into his stomach reassured him that he was, in fact, actually here and experiencing this moment. Irene had remained patiently waiting through all of this, her hand still on his knee, her eyes expectant but not demanding as she regarded his every gesture. Sherlock was trying to think how he could possibly formulate all of his scattered half-thoughts into an articulate reply, when he realised he didn't need to. Going by how this conversation had transpired and the way that Irene was looking at him now, he realised she must be deducing and anticipating his thought processes and conclusions herself. In spite of the fact that she wasn't doing or saying anything, Sherlock found himself thinking that she was absolutely brilliant. That said it all, really.

He swallowed, set his empty glass down on the coffee table, then met her direct, piercing gaze as he replied, finally, simply, "Yes. I agree."

Irene smiled the most radiant smile in the known universe, then leaned in, sliding her hand up his thigh suggestively as she kissed him firmly, sensuously, but briefly. Sherlock's heart thudded against his ribcage, not to mention his pulse growing more pronounced elsewhere as well. He felt a bit dizzy as Irene pulled back and looked down at him with those sharp, fantastic eyes of hers. "Good. Isn't it better having that out of the way rather than hanging over our heads?" she said, the ever-present mischief quirking one edge of her mouth. She scooted back and stood up, and for a moment Sherlock felt oddly bereft at the loss of contact. That was forgotten, however, when she offered him her hand, along with a dark glint in her eye as she said, "Now how about we conduct some important research?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

Irene tightened her grip on Sherlock's hand, tugging him in the direction of the bedroom, pulling his body off balance enough that he really had no choice but to follow. Her graceful stride didn't break, even as her other hand reached down to pluck the champagne bottle off the coffee table. The glasses she would leave. She imagined Sherlock would dislike drinking straight from the bottle, but she also wagered she could get him to do just about anything she liked at this juncture, no matter how improper or undignified he might normally see it as being. The man had been practically crackling with desire from the second he'd entered her hotel. And now that they'd put their feelings for one another out in the open, he was looking at her with an even more open, hungry desire - no,  _need_  - than before. She didn't need him on a leash to lead him wherever she wanted at this juncture.

Not that those feelings were one-sided. Irene wasn't sure when the last time she'd gone that long without being intimate with another person was. So yes, admittedly, there had been a lot of primal hormonal factors involved yesterday. It had certainly lowered her normal proclivity for teasing, because she wasn't sure she could have taken drawing things out herself. And Sherlock had been in no mood. Beyond that bit of panic he'd displayed in the beginning (which she wanted to ask him about at some point, though now was hardly the time), he'd certainly taken command. That had been surprising. And wonderful. That was definitely one she was going to lock away in her memory and return to later.

Still, Irene had also meant what she'd told Sherlock just now: this had gone well beyond the physical. In actuality, their emotional entanglement had been developing for a good year before they'd consummated it physically (arguably two years - ever since she'd changed her passcode to his name). And the curious thing about it was, it was  _better_  this way, something neither of them could or would have anticipated when they'd first met. Both would have instantly agreed that a sentimental attachment was always a bad idea, something that sullied rather than uplifted interaction between two people. But those old selves had been shed like snakeskin as they'd both grown into new people these past two years.

So when Irene stopped next to the pillow-laden bed and turned around to look up at Sherlock, she was unsurprised to find his eyes boring into hers with a mixture of raging desire and fierce, almost possessive sentiment. It was slightly different from the look he'd got just as he'd lifted her onto the countertop yesterday. It still quickened her pulse, but at the same time gave her a deeper, oddly calm feeling. She knew how she felt about him, but what was more, so did he. Irene had let them both suffer through a year of supposed professional detachment, of him destroying himself with cocaine while she destroyed herself with her silence. Knowing all that was gone, that they had come to a mutual agreement about their relationship lifted an enormous burden from her shoulders. It might have made Sherlock incredibly nervous and uncomfortable, but Irene knew that deep down, he had to feel the same relief as she. Of course he did. She could see it in the way sentiment and lust swirled together in his darkened eyes.

God, that stare. Grey and cool like a scalpel, slicing precisely and deeply through anything it targeted. Definitely the new sexy. That look had never ceased to draw Irene closer to Sherlock. It was a constant reminder of just how much was going on in that brilliant, sharp, unintentionally charming brain of his. That look was fixed on her now, and Irene knew that Sherlock's mind was whirring with notions of the many "experiments" he wanted to conduct.

While many women might have blushed or swallowed hard in intimidation, for Irene it only brought a small, proud grin to her face.  _She_  had done this to him, after all. Unlocked a whole section of his mind that had otherwise lain dormant. There ought to be some sort of Nobel Prize for that.

Irene raised the champagne bottle slowly to her lips and took a long swallow of the effervescent liquid. Then she let the bottle slide suggestively from her mouth and tilted it in Sherlock's direction. The confident look in his eyes wavered ever so slightly at the little suggestive gesture, just as Irene had intended. And, as she'd hoped, he covered by taking a long gulp of champagne. Irene noted that his cheeks were already tinted ever so slightly pink from the two glasses he'd had in quick succession. He was far from drunk (and, really, that would be counter-productive to the day's planned activities). But she figured he could stand to loosen up a bit.

Before he was quite done taking a drink, Irene delicately stretched the fingers of her right hand out and began deftly, nearly silently undoing his belt. "You know, I didn't quite get to finish my own experiment yesterday," she said, raising an eyebrow and smiling up at him.

Evidently she didn't need to further explain what she was referring to, based on the way Sherlock swallowed the champagne as if it were a rock. He set the bottle down on the dresser almost clumsily as he appeared to search for a measure of control. "Ah, that," he said finally, clearing his throat and falling far short of the calm tone he was obviously aiming for. Irene had to bite the inside of her bottom lip to keep it from curling up. "Probably best not to try that again now," he reasoned. "That would throw off my experiments."

"Oh, of course," Irene replied with mock gravity. "We can't have that." Still, she pulled his belt slowly out of its loops. It would have to come off sooner or later, regardless of who was doing what.

Evidently that was enough of a provocation to awaken Sherlock's genuine dedication to the scientific method, because he reached down and grabbed Irene's wrists, giving her a stern look. "I mean it. If we're going to be doing this with some regularity, I'd like to make a thorough examination of the efficacy of various sexual acts and positions. It would be valuable information to know up front."

Irene couldn't hold back her smile any more. No one else on earth would speak like that in a situation like this, and she adored it. "What I was proposing  _was_  a rather sexual act," she pointed out coyly. She couldn't help letting her delight show through. This was merely scratching the surface of all the things she could (and very much wanted) to do to him, and already it was getting him flustered. That he was trying to write it off as an impasse to science only made it all the more, well,  _Sherlock_.

The open amusement and teasing prompted an even deeper scowl and fiercer stare from Sherlock. He looked just about ready to lean down and shut her up with a kiss. In fact, he'd already moved his head a few inches in that direction when he froze. He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly. His lips, which had just been parting as he leaned towards her, tightened. Irene knew she'd been caught. Damn, and the provocation had nearly worked. "A very good attempt," Sherlock practically growled, letting go of her wrists and stepping back slightly. "But I meant what I said. I want to make a thorough examination."

Irene looked up at him in wonder. He was serious. Or at least, he thought that he was. Sherlock actually believed that he could treat their bodies like science experiments. Well, if he really would rather isolate variables, do trial and error runs to determine just exactly what turned each of them on, who was she to stop him? As outlandish as it seemed, really, it was rather adorable in an odd way. It was such a distinctly  _Sherlock_  thing to do. She just thought the straining in his trousers and the burning look in his eye, the way his speech bellied a dry throat, plus his wide pupils were all an indication that he very much wanted to get on with it. But if he wanted to play at being a scientist, she'd let him. They'd see how long that lasted.

"Fair enough, then. We'll do it your way," Irene said, taking a bit of a step back. "If you promise to let me do it my way later."

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously, not quite sure what that meant. "Your way," he questioned, slowly.

Irene recalled the one time she'd actually treated Sherlock as one of her clients, and realised he might be getting the wrong idea. Though cocaine had played a large part in his emotional frailty in that situation, she'd been to blame as well. The insults she'd hurled at him had been deeply personal rather than playfully imaginative. The restraints hadn't helped. He'd nearly had a panic attack. It had turned out as badly as any session Irene had ever had. There had certainly been nothing sexy about it, and she could see the ghost of that memory in Sherlock's eyes. Dropping her smile, she said seriously, "Not my professional way. I'm not going to do that to you again." He gave a curt nod of thanks, and the muscles around his mouth relaxed again. Smiling slowly, Irene said softly, "I just mean, if we're going to be thorough and scientific and let you lead this time, you owe me a chance to be in charge and be a bit more... messy."

Sherlock remained still, save for the motion of his throat as he swallowed hard. After a moment, he said, "Agreed."

Irene's smile grew wider, like the cat that caught the canary. "Your lead, then, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock eyed her a moment, as if taking in a crime scene, deciding where to start. Then he reached down and captured her left wrist in his right hand, placing his forefingers on her pulse and securing the grip with his thumb. She might have known he'd use that as his measure. Irene could feel a very small increase in her heart rate just from the contact. Sherlock certainly would have, but his expression remained one of attentive concentration. No doubt he was paying attention to the manner of her breathing, the size of her pupils, whether her lips were parted at all. The irony of it was that it was, in fact, something  _she_  did to clients on a regular basis, part of measuring them up. But that always came in the course of other events transpiring, not while methodically isolating variables. It really shouldn't have been as sexy as it was, but this was Sherlock. He had a way of making many things attractive to her that oughtn't have been. In fairness, he felt the same way about her.

Now that he had a good measure on her pulse, Sherlock finally leaned in and pressed his warm, soft lips to the left side of her neck. He kissed in one spot (most likely on some artery or another, she wasn't sure. Irene knew many things about the human body, but she lacked Sherlock's extensive familiarity with blood vessels). He then moved a centimetre up and placed another kiss. Then two centimetres down until he kissed a spot that caused her skin to tingle and drew a small sigh of contentment.

To Irene's minor frustration, rather than continuing to kiss that spot, however, Sherlock moved his head again, this time to press his lips to the conjunction of her jaw and ear. Then he moved to nibble at her earlobe, which prompted another sigh. Slowly, he drew her earlobe between his lips and sucked lightly. The hot breath in and around her ear combined with the warm, wet sensation sent a shiver over Irene's skin. She could imagine those lips other places. Without thinking about it, Irene's free hand snaked up Sherlock's back, splaying out on the taught fabric between his shoulder blades. Her fingertips curled, digging slightly into his back as Sherlock's tongue flicked out to graze the inner curve of her ear. Irene moaned, her eyes fluttering shut.

And was instantly left cold as Sherlock pulled away entirely, save for keeping his hand on her pulse. Irene's eyes flew open and she looked up at the detective's crinkled brow. "Interesting," he mused, his tone rough with desire but somehow still scientifically curious as well. She bit back a comment.  _You agreed to this,_ she reminded herself. But God, just how long was this going to go on? Was he really going to go through this process with every possible erogenous zone? Surely not. Then she thought back to a blog post she'd read of his where he said he'd detailed the four days he'd spent watching water evaporate while salt crystals formed in a petri dish.  _Oh dear God..._ she thought as he switched to begin repeating the same series of kisses on the opposite side of her neck.

There was a point at which this would cease to be uniquely charming and become extremely irritating, and Irene didn't want to get anywhere near that point. The trick was to find a way to get Sherlock to abandon this pursuit himself. To push his analytical brain out of the way and remind him of the strong desires that must still be coursing through him. To remind him that this was meant to be foreplay leading up to something, not an experiment all on its own. She'd already tried alcohol, and that didn't seem to be enough of a distraction. She'd have to let his own hormones do the work. A quick mental scan of their recent interaction and conversations, and Irene was sure she had just the trigger. She swallowed and sighed in a slightly different manner, one only half-indicative of pleasure.

It was enough for Sherlock to notice. He pulled back from sucking on her left earlobe and gave Irene a questioning look. "Getting impatient?"

"No," she insisted, lifting one foot to indicate her high-heeled shoes. "But I am rather uncomfortable standing here like this. I'm not sure I'm as relaxed as I ought to be. You wouldn't want that sort of thing to throw off your results, I imagine."

"Take them off," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"I could, but to be honest standing barefoot for a protracted period of time won't be much better. High arches," Irene pointed out, rather truthfully. It could put an awful lot of downward pressure on the spine to stand stationary in one spot without support. Sherlock would know this to be a fact of anatomy and physiology.

"What would make it easier for you to relax?" Sherlock asked, though there was the slightest edge of suspicion in his tone. Obviously he would be looking for her to sneak one by him. But, Irene knew, if she could continue to appeal to his sense of reason, he wouldn't be able to argue, no matter how much he saw through her.

"Lying down would be easiest. Though this is a tailored dress. The darts aren't likely to fall very comfortably when lying down. Besides which, it will wrinkle horribly," she pointed out, in as straightforward a tone as possible, completely devoid of suggestion. Still, Sherlock gave her a sceptical, knowing glower. "Oh, I suppose it's too much to ask that I be allowed a bit of comfort while you experiment on me. Tell me, were you planning on examining any erogenous zones besides my neck or limbs?" she gave him a challenging stare, though one as lacking in flirtation as she possibly could. Instead, she aimed for irritation, which wasn't a difficult pretence to assume at the moment.

Sherlock eyed her carefully, pursing his lips in thought. Going by the still-pink colour of his cheeks and forehead, the alcohol  _was_ having some effect on him. Perhaps it would be just enough to get him to lighten up on this point. He glanced down at her closely-tailored red dress, then back up to meet her eyes. It was most likely just occurring to him that in spite of having sex the day before, he had yet to get her out of her clothes. "All right," he conceded. "I suppose it's a necessary step. And I would prefer you to be comfortable."

"Thank you," Irene said, smiling up at him through her eyelashes. He wavered only a little before circling around behind her. She tilted her head forward, knowing this would both give him access to the zipper on her dress and a better view of the line of her neck. Still, he didn't hesitate as he reached up and undid the clasp then began slowly sliding the zipper down her back, further and further, until he reached the small of her back, where he stopped momentarily.

_Ah, there we are,_  Irene thought, a small unseen smile gracing her lips. This plan just might work yet. She knew she'd picked up on something in their phone conversation yesterday, a hitch in his voice when she'd mentioned the bruising on her back. The bruises  _he'd_  put there when he'd pressed her repeatedly into the wall, a memory she wagered was flashing through his mind right now judging by the way his hand trembled ever so slightly against her zipper and his breath hitched noticeably.

For a charged, electric moment, neither of them moved or said anything. Irene could feel Sherlock's breath hot and increasingly uneven on her neck. She was getting to him, and he had to know it. He could try to ignore what was in front of him. The evidence of the passion he'd freely unleashed the previous day; the same passion that she knew still whispered to him somewhere in his brain, underneath all the musings and calculations and observations. Still, he wasn't speaking, nor was he moving on. So instead, Irene said, "It's not as bad as it looks. Fair skin always shows marks the worst. Slamming into that wall once would have been enough. Let alone what we wound up doing."

Now Sherlock gave a long, shaky exhale. Irene could feel his fingers bunching up on the fabric of her dress, around the zipper, but avoiding touching her skin. His head came forward to hover over her right shoulder. "You did this on purpose," he rumbled in accusation, sounding a strange mixture of put out and turned on, which  _really_  encouraged her. He must have known that was as good as waving the white flag.

Irene raised and turned her head to look up over her shoulder, directly into Sherlock's stormy eyes. "And?" she asked, quietly. She was careful not to make her tone too challenging or flirtatious. She didn't need to do that. In fact, it would be better if he stepped into this prison of his own making.

Sherlock stared at her carefully, his eyes flicking first back and forth across her eyes, then down to her lips. Finally, he let the hand on her dress relax, settling gently against the bare small of her back. His right hand slid up the skin of her arm in a light, teasing manner as he dipped his head to place a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her collarbone. Irene's head lolled forward, her eyes closing as goose pimples broke out on her skin.  _This is more like it,_  she thought with a contented inward sigh. She appreciated Sherlock's dedication to the scientific method when it came to his cases, but in this particular kind of scenario, she much preferred to see him use his laser-sharp focus to multi-task.

And did he ever. As he continued the motion of his mouth and right hand, Sherlock's left hand went back to the zipper of her dress. While he began slowly pulling it down, he crouched down, his mouth roaming back over her shoulder and down the newly exposed skin of her spine. His right hand snaked off of her arm and around her waist, ghosting over the fabric on her lower abdomen in a teasing manner. Irene's breathing grew deeper, more ragged. Sherlock probably didn't need a hand on her pulse to know it was speeding up and strengthening. When the zipper reached its end point just below the curve of her buttocks, Irene felt Sherlock's tongue flick out to meet the bruising on the small of her back. The moan that rose in her throat only seemed to encourage him. He breathed against her skin, causing her to shiver even further. He stood up slowly, as if his legs had gone a bit wobbly. "Interesting," he commented, his own voice betraying a bit of a quiver. "Would it hurt to lie on your back?" he asked.

Irene's eyes opened, though she refrained from twisting around to look over her shoulder at him. She very much wished there were a mirror in front of them at this moment, because based on the arousal she detected in his voice, she'd love to be able to see the look in his eyes right now. "Mmm, possibly," she replied, curious and hopeful as to where he was going with this.

Sherlock stood slowly, pushing her dress forward and off both of her shoulders as he did. Irene obliged him by pulling her arms out of the sleeve holes, letting the garment fall off her hips, then stepping out of both the dress, which she set on the dresser in front of her, and her shoes. Now in only her black lace lingerie, Irene leaned back into Sherlock's embrace. She could feel the vibrations of his chest as he said, as casually as possible, "It might be particularly uncomfortable for you to lie on your back with my added body weight on top of you." He rested his right hand on her hip, his left splayed out on the soft skin of her toned stomach.

The feel of flesh on flesh was intoxicating, even to someone as experienced as Irene. In spite of their frenzied encounter yesterday, she still hadn't felt the warmth of skin on skin in six months, and was now dying to get him out of his clothes as well to feel much, much more of this. Especially given the suggestive timbre of his words and everything they promised. "That's very considerate of you," she said, also sounding casual, though with an edge of dangerous, electric tension behind her words. "Did you have a solution to suggest?"

"It would be an experiment of its own kind," he replied into her hair. There was a pregnant pause before he said finally, "But I have heard that one might achieve deeper penetration and potentially better access to the Gräfenberg Spot if the man enters from behind."

Irene was hit simultaneously with a warm thrill radiating from her centre and a warm chuckle exiting her throat, unbidden. "Only, you, Sherlock," she said, bemused.

Sherlock's hands pulled away slightly until only his strong fingertips were touching her; he quickly used this new grasp to turn her around in place so he could look down at her with furrowed brow. "That's what it's called, isn't it? That is, if it even exists at all, which there's considerable debate on in the scientific community. Examinations of female cadavers-"

Irene reached up and pulled smoothly but firmly on the back of his neck until his lips met hers, effectively cutting off what she could tell was going to be a lengthy detour into a considerably unsexy arena. Instead, she worked her lips slowly, deliberately against Sherlock's, easing his mouth open. He didn't seem to have any objections to being silenced, instead wrapping his hands around her back and slipping his tongue past her teeth. As the slow, deliberate, tantalizing kiss continued, Irene let go of Sherlock's neck and instead began unbuttoning his shirt. When she reached the bottom and pulled up the tails, Sherlock obliged by letting go of her long enough that she could slide the garment down and off of his arms, eventually discarding it entirely. It wasn't until her manicured nails grazed the skin below his navel that Sherlock broke off the kiss.

For a moment, the detective merely stared at her. But it wasn't the look of scientific study from earlier, nor the purely animalistic lust of the day before either. Instead Irene glimpsed something else in Sherlock's grey-blue eyes. A look she'd seen him turn towards her many times over the past year and a half of their acquaintance. A deep-seated longing, a need that had less to do with bodies than with - for lack of a better term - souls. For a long time, she had fought very hard not to mirror that look back at him, even though she had felt the same. But after the discussion they'd had today, they were well and truly past that, once and for all. There was no tension, no great struggle to hold back sentiments. Not even the uncertainty that had accompanied their first sexual encounters back in Tel Aviv, before he'd returned home to London and from the dead.

No, now they were in agreement. A relationship. And terrifying as it ought to have been, instead all Irene could feel was a sense of enormous relief. As she gazed back up at Sherlock, knowing the fiercely caring look in his eyes was the same one she was now giving back to him, Irene felt completely at ease for perhaps the first time in her adult life. She reached up, stretching on her toes, lacing her hands through the curly hair at the base of Sherlock's neck, and kissed him again. This time, it was a fervent, ferocious kiss. Yet still precise, not messy and haphazard like the day before. They were more in sync, in silent agreement about whose tongue ought to go where, when to suck on a bottom lip and when to release it. When Sherlock began backing them closer to the bed, Irene was entirely in step with him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to be a bit slower, more on the other of once every 5-7 days now, because I'm extremely busy with some RL job interview related things this week. I'm also rapidly catching up to what I've already got written, and trying to keep at least a bit of a buffer. Your patience is appreciated! Now enjoy this extremely M-rated chapter.

By the time their progress was stopped, she'd undone his trousers and pulled his belt free. Breathing heavily through his nose, Sherlock kissed her harder in affirmation, then toed his way out of his shoes and socks without breaking contact with her lips. Irene's experienced hands worked his trousers off of his hips, and Sherlock's right hand reached around to unclasp her bra in one deft motion. With a few quick moments of cooperation, they managed to finish removing both articles of clothing without disconnecting their hungry mouths from one another. It wasn't until their bare chests pressed together that both of them gasped involuntarily, forcing them to come up for air (which was just as well, if they didn't want to pass out).

Irene raked her nails lightly across the expanse of Sherlock's back as she stared up at him with smouldering eyes. His own eyes widened slightly. Not to be outdone, his left hand teased the skin at the small or her back as he reached up with his right hand and rolled Irene's left nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, yes," Irene breathed encouragingly. Sherlock maintained eye contact, drinking in her reaction as he twisted and pulled a little harder. Irene could feel the chemicals releasing in her brain, making her feel warmly euphoric and dulling her higher thinking processes. From the look on Sherlock's face and the rhythm of his breathing, he was experiencing a similar high. She wondered fleetingly if this was what cocaine felt like, but quickly suppressed that line of thought as soon as it arose.

Instead she let the clearest thought dominating her mind out. "More," she whispered huskily. Sherlock obliged by bringing his left hand up to her right breast to mirror his own motions. Meanwhile, he leaned his head forward and kissed her again. He soon settled into a rhythm, pulling deliberately, rhythmically at her nipples as he plunged his tongue in and out of her mouth. Whether by conscious suggestion or not, the acts those motions foreshadowed in Irene's mind caused a warm, buzzing feeling of anticipation to spread out through her whole body. Down below, she could feel the heavy, wet sensation growing by the second. She moaned deeply into Sherlock's mouth, then broke the kiss and gave him an intense, commanding look.

Inexperienced as he was, Sherlock appeared slightly hesitant to read into that expression. So Irene helped him out a bit, reaching her hands into the elastic waistband of his black silk boxers, slowly sinking down as she slid the undergarments all the way to the floor. She could see the fine hairs on Sherlock's legs standing up as he stepped out of this last bit of clothing. She breathed out against his thigh, turning his pale skin to gooseflesh. She considered going a bit further, but given how he'd reacted to that particular act yesterday, she wasn't sure she wanted to push him that quickly again. So Irene stood back up, and Sherlock took the hint and repeated the process for her, crouching to remove her underwear and stopping along the length of her leg to place a few kisses on her smooth white skin.

As soon as he stood back up, Irene took the initiative and crawled onto the bed, lying on her left side, her head propped up on her hand. Sherlock hesitated momentarily, and Irene wondered if perhaps he was losing his nerve a bit. So she smiled up at him and said, "I believe it's your duty as a scientist to establish whether those anatomical claims are correct or not, don't you?"

Seemingly unable to form any actual words, and visibly quite aroused at this stage, Sherlock merely let out a sound that was a mixture of a hum and a growl, then climbed carefully over Irene to cradle her smaller form in his arms. With his arousal pressing into the small of her back, he seemed extra careful not to cause any friction between them as he leaned over and slightly around her, pressing a kiss to the exact pulse point of her neck that he'd earlier pinpointed as her erogenous zone. Irene let out a little gasp and squirmed slightly, causing Sherlock to whisper against her skin, "The scientific method doesn't seem like such an awful approach now, does it?"

"Mmm," Irene hummed, regaining her confident tone in spite of how breathily they were both speaking. "But if we'd done it your way, we wouldn't be  _here_  now," she said, punctuating her point with a slow backwards tilt of her hips. It was enough to make solid contact with Sherlock, and caused him to bite lightly at the vulnerable spot he'd just been kissing on her extended neck. Irene smiled knowingly. She absolutely loved causing the collected, careful detective to lose himself enough that he responded out of primal instinct. Irene rolled her hips back into him again, and this time Sherlock growled throatily and scooted back away from her.

At first, she had a slight fear he might be getting overwhelmed, as he'd seemed to the day before when she'd tried to introduce him to something new. His arm moved away from her for a moment. Luckily, it then returned, now with a large, thick pillow which he set in front of her. Then Sherlock gently pushed on the centre of her back (avoiding the lower-set bruising), rolling her forward onto the pillow.  _Ah, considerate,_  Irene thought as she settled onto her forearms and knees. The pillow she situated beneath her shoulders for extra support and comfort as her upper body leaned forward. Once she was settled, she glanced over at Sherlock, who was off to her left, still lying on his side, eyes widened and jaw a little slack. Irene gave him a sly smile. "I don't believe you can conduct your experiment from over there," she teased.

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding like he'd just swallowed a handful of cotton. He cleared his throat and licked his lips, obviously hit with a sudden case of a very dry mouth. And what had to have been a painfully aroused body by the looks of things. The pink flush of his cheeks from the champagne had now been amplified and spread down to his chest. Getting a good look at his body for the first time in six months, Irene was pleased to see how much more healthy and strong he appeared to be, in spite of his naturally thin frame. He was definitely in good shape, which was certainly what she had guessed based on yesterday's performance. Given his tendency to avoid eating and sleeping when on a case, he was never going to be bulky with muscles. But he had lithe and even somewhat defined muscles like a runner's. Judging by the fact that he was in better shape than when she'd first met him, Irene surmised he'd been getting physical activity beyond just the usual running around London, though. She ought to ask him about it later, though right now she didn't want to give him any topic with the potential to carry him off on a tangent. Though Sherlock definitely noticed her staring, and that only seemed to make the pulse in his neck pound more visibly.

Irene watched in bemusement as Sherlock shut his eyes tightly a moment, taking a few deep breaths before he pushed himself up on his knees. Once he had moved behind her Irene turned her head straight forward, leaning her forehead and forearms down on the pillow. She felt the bed shift slightly behind her from Sherlock's weight.

A moment later, the knuckles of Sherlock's right hand connected with her most sensitive flesh, and Irene's abdominal muscles twitched tightly in response. Then he slowly dragged his hand backwards, covering his fingers in a bit of natural lubrication and sending jolts of tingling energy and pulses of blood through Irene's body. She moaned softly, and to her delight, Sherlock repeated the motion a few more times. But just as she began tilting her hips in time with his strokes, he pulled his hand back. "Something more important to do?" Irene asked, her frustration only half a joke.

In response, Sherlock pressed his slicked index and middle fingers forwards, then slowly slid them inside her. Irene clenched her inner muscles around his hand and closed her eyes, letting out a ragged sigh. Still kneeling, Sherlock leaned his tall frame forward and pressed his chest to her back. Irene could feel puffs of air from his mouth on the base of her neck as he spoke. "Anatomical reports that do include this particular spot all seem to indicate it should be on the anterior wall of the vagina, and that it may have a rougher texture than the rest of the vaginal wall." Irene was certain that the words 'vaginal wall' were not ever supposed to be this arousing. But, clinical terminology or no, somehow coming from Sherlock it still sent a tingle through her. Not to mention that in addition to his fingers inside her, she could feel his erection grazing her externally, causing her to jolt.

Or perhaps that was the pressure his fingers were now applying to a particular spot. Irene gave a short groan, and Sherlock stopped his roving. "There," she affirmed. In response, Sherlock pressed a warm kiss to her neck and rubbed the internal spot rhythmically, applying firm pressure. A warm deep shudder of pleasure flooded Irene. She flexed her muscles around him in time with his motions.

Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand, settling it on her hip as he remained leaned forward onto her back. "That would seem to be a confirmation, at least for your particular anatomy," he said quietly, nibbling at her neck. Irene was suddenly thankful that she'd worn her hair up loosely, allowing Sherlock much greater access to the sensitive skin at the back of her neck in this position. It took a great deal of effort for her to put herself in such a submissive, vulnerable situation. She was usually impatient with such a role. But this was  _Sherlock_ leaning over her, pinning her in place. In spite of her instincts telling her to flip him over and take control, a deeper part of her was actually finding this embrace oddly comforting, his weight on her back reassuring, the whisper of breath on her neck soothing. She felt another warm tingle as the detective continued whispering in her ear,"But then, I have a feeling you knew that already."

"I didn't want to bias your thesis. Or your hands-on observations," Irene said a bit shakily, unable to resist responding with a playful lilt and a smile in her voice to indicate the smile on her lips that he couldn't see.

But Sherlock, who a few years ago would have tightened his lips and rolled his eyes in annoyance at such a base, easy innuendo actually let out a low, rumbling chuckle that Irene could feel vibrating from his chest to her back. Then he quieted. "I think I've had quite enough of observing," he whispered, sounding suddenly serious.

"Me too," Irene agreed, her tone matching his. Her heart hammered in her chest and all through her body. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Every cell in her body was practically screaming at her to get on with it, to become as close to him as possible.

The bed behind her shifted again as Sherlock moved backwards. He paused along the way to place a warm, gentle kiss on the bruising he'd left on her lower back the day before, and she shuddered. In truth, he could bruise her again and she'd he more than fine with it. Irene bit her lip, reminding herself of his novice and the need to not throw him straight into the deep end, sexually speaking, as difficult as it sometimes was to restrain herself. Best not to scare him away.

Sherlock settled back into a kneeling position. His hands went to her hips, clearly doing his best to line himself up. Irene instinctively canted her hips upward and rocked back subconsciously towards him. Every fibre of her body was thrumming, tingling with anticipation. She craved the intimate contact that was so unique to being with a man, with  _this_  man in particular. She'd long since decided to abandon all logic where these desires were concerned and just accept them for what they were. Irene's world grew dark and silent save for the sound of her heartbeat as all of her concentration narrowed and focused in on the feel of Sherlock: his left hand holding her hips steady, his legs brushing the backs of hers as he leaned forward, and finally, his right hand guiding himself as he carefully entered her.

Irene inhaled deeply, a marvellous shudder running through her body as Sherlock sank forward, sliding all the way in, seemingly to his surprise judging by the sharp gasp he gave and the way his chest trembled as it practically collapsed onto Irene's back. For a few moments, he stayed like that, shaking, breathing unevenly.

"Breathe deeply, through your nose," Irene urged him gently, evenly. "Exhale through your mouth. You're fine. It's just a bit more contact than you've felt before." Despite being in a decidedly submissive position, she was still infinitely more experienced and in control than he. Fortunately she'd seen a lot of not very experienced men in heightened states of excitement. Usually not from  _quite_  this intimate a distance, but still. She was fairly good at keeping them conscious rather than having them hyperventilating. She took a deep breath herself, trying to focus on Sherlock's state, even as every burning, humming nerve in her body sparked to life from the feel of having him as close to her as possible.

 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, focusing on Irene's words and doing as he was told, breathing through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. A bit more contact indeed. Not only was the penetration deeper, as expected, but at this angle the fit seemed to be more snug as well. He hadn't been entirely prepared for that, and felt a bit daft at his reaction. His whole body was shuddering with pleasure, his mind swimming, his skin beaded all over with sweat. He took a few more breaths and tried to think of this as objectively as possible. There'd been a purpose to trying out this position, after all. He'd succeeded in locating the spot he was supposed to be aiming for. Yes, that was it. In his mind he could picture a diagram of male and female anatomy and how it ought to be lined up. That bit of logistical thinking was enough to bring Sherlock's heart rate down to a respectable level of elevation rather than at a rate where it was causing him to become light-headed.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock blinked away the sweat that had dripped down onto his lashes. "Sorry," he said huskily, unable to speak any other way it seemed, as he placed a weak, apologetic kiss at the base of Irene's neck.

"This is  _far_  from the sort of scenario you ought to apologize to a woman for," Irene said, her own breath sounding ragged. That made Sherlock feel a little better. Yes, now that he was paying closer attention, he could feel that her heart rate was still elevated, the fine hairs on her shoulders slightly raised. Obviously this was arousing for her as well. Good.

Sherlock put his left hand down on the bed and pushed himself up slightly, so he wasn't burdening Irene with so much dead weight. His arms were long enough that this put him hovering several inches above her back. It was close enough to feel intimate and allow him to lean forward and kiss her if he liked, but practically speaking, he  _was_  going to need a bit of space for movement.

Speaking of that movement, Irene was being quiet and patient, but he could feel from the way that her toes curled beside his on the bed that she was feeling impatient. He recognized that she must not be at all accustomed to relinquishing this much control sexually. In an odd way, the fact that she hadn't simply thrown him off, down onto the bed, and climbed on top of him by now spoke more of the level of trust and care she placed in him than even their discussion earlier in the sitting room had. Well, he ought not to let her feel that was at all one sided. In spite of the fact that he himself was still trembling, Sherlock slowly dragged his right hand down Irene's spine, sliding it around at her waist to rest on her stomach a moment. He drew circles on her skin with his fingers. Promising, teasing. Then he slid his fingers lower, to the spot he had already researched on Irene well enough to know the sort of reaction it drew from her.

As if on cue, Irene inhaled sharply, her internal muscles spasming momentarily at the contact. A warm jolt of pleasure shot up through his spine at the sensation, and Sherlock bit back a groan of response that threatened to leave his throat. He had to have  _some_  measure of control over himself. "Yes," Irene moaned breathily, her hands bunching up slightly on the pillow she was leaning forward onto. She circled her hips slightly in time with the motions of his hands. Then, "Are you just back there to watch?" she asked, her tone wry but her voice shaky with desire.

Taking one last deep breath, Sherlock began to move his hips in slow, deep rocking motions, moving in time with the rubbing motions of his right hand between Irene's legs. Unfortunately with no hands holding Irene firmly in place, each thrust rocked Sherlock forward and back on his knees considerably. While his own body was taught and warm from that much sensation as it was, in the back of his mind he was aware that he wasn't quite getting the proper angle or friction that Irene most likely required.

Something was holding him back, though. Going as he was, his body might be aching for more but the pleasurable jolts going up his spine were at a level he could control. That was much more mentally comfortable for him. His pace had picked up a little, but with all sliding around his thrusts were still shallow. The friction he'd felt on first entering had lessened a bit, and that put him at ease.

But evidently, at ease was the last thing Irene wanted to be. She clenched around him tightly, causing Sherlock to groan a little and hitch his movements. She turned her head to the side on the pillow and looked back over her shoulder at him with one eye. "Harder," she ground out. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought that was a threat. It sounded enough like one to send a small jolt of fear through him at least. Just yesterday he'd seen what happened when he challenged or irked Irene in a sexual arena. And as much as he desired her, desired to be with her in many different ways, he was fairly certain he wasn't ready to expose himself to her idea of payback just yet. Sherlock bit his lip and swallowed slowly, eyes still locked on Irene's smouldering one. He drew his hips back then snapped them forward. A jolt of energy shot up his spine and radiated outward, almost as if he'd been electrocuted. Irene made a small noise of pleasure as he connected with the spot he'd been aiming for.

"Again," she repeated, commandingly.

Sherlock did as he was told, and wound up nearly losing his balance, forced to remove his right hand from between Irene's legs to catch himself on the bed instead. In spite of that mishap, his head swam with the brief buzz of euphoria the sensation had brought on. It had been far too fleeting. He needed more. But first, he wanted permission. Or perhaps part of him knew precisely how Irene would respond when he pressed his chest to her back and whispered in her ear, "Tell me precisely what you want."

Because his body certainly throbbed and his mind swam gloriously when Irene hissed back at him, "Stop messing about and just fuck me, Sherlock."

A shudder ran down his back to the base of Sherlock's spine, where everything tightened. He could feel his skin growing hot, a trickle of cool sweat dripping down the back of his neck to compensate. He wanted to make some sort of reply. A word, a growl, anything. But he found his mouth so dry and his throat so constricted that nothing came out at all. Vulgarity really oughtn't to have been so maddeningly alluring. He'd never found it to be before, save for an isolated incident with Irene when he'd been extremely high.

And perhaps that was it, because he  _felt_  almost as if he were high right now. Whatever sense of propriety, whatever inhibitions he might normally have held, all of it went right out the window. Instead Sherlock's reply was to bite down on Irene's shoulder, drawing a surprised but delighted sigh from her lips. Then in one smooth motion, he lifted both of his hands from the bed, placed them on either side of Irene's curvy, gorgeous hips, and pushed himself up into a kneeling position behind her. There was a moment's pause, like a breath before the plunge as Sherlock assured that he was lined up correctly. Then he held Irene tightly in place and snapped his hips forward forcefully.

" _Ah!"_  Irene exclaimed, at the same time as fireworks seemed to explode in Sherlock's brain and he was fairly certain a similar exclamation to hers exited his lips. "Yes, that," Irene panted, pressing her forehead into the pillow and twisting bunches of the comforter in her hands.

His heart seeming as loud as a passing freight train, his mouth falling open to suck in more air, Sherlock gave in. He thrust into Irene again, producing the same sounds, the same tightness in his lower abdomen, and the same tiny spots before his eyes. Then his body seemed to take over entirely. Fingers like vices dug into Irene's hips, not caring that he was likely to add more marks to the mottled bruising he could see on her lower back from the day before.

But if their congress yesterday had been passionate, this was downright animalistic. Sherlock held Irene in place as his hips thrust forward powerfully, his pace already picking up. He could tell this wasn't going to last long. The heat radiating off their bodies made it feel sweltering in the room, adding to Sherlock's light-headedness. Sweat covered his chest, his thighs, everywhere. And the haggard rasp of his moaning breaths drowned out any pleasured sounds Irene was making. He wanted this, only this. Over and over, his body slamming into her warmth. And the friction. The electric heat shooting, crackling between them. Building up within him as his everything tightened and grew heavy.

Sherlock couldn't have slowed down if he'd wanted to. But right now he didn't have high enough thought processes to  _want_  anything. He _needed_ : Irene clutched beneath him, her hands wound in the duvet, the white and bruised expanse of her back laid vulnerable before him, her soft moans of pleasure into the pillow. All caused by  _him_ , what  _he_  was doing to her. A snap of his hips, the resultant burst of pleasure, a gasping inhale of air, again. Action, immediate gratification, heightening desire, repeat. The spots before his eyes grew, in number and size. The slick sweat between his body and Irene's mingled and joined until it was all one warm, moist cocoon. He breathed in the salty water like vapour off the sea. Their own scents mingled with it. Sherlock tensed as he thrust again once, twice, a third time-

Then dug his fingernails into the soft flesh of Irene's hips, let out a long loud choked moan as all the muscles along his spine flexed at once, bringing Sherlock straight upright as the waves of pure blinding pleasure pulsed through his body and he emptied himself in what felt like a shockwave that was never going to end. It lasted longer than it ever had before, and when his muscles finally released, Sherlock slid backwards onto his heels, then flopped inelegantly onto his side, arms and legs lying in an uncomfortable tangle he was too exhausted to bother correcting. He gasped for air desperately, his chest rising and falling like a sprinter's. That wasn't helping the black spots any. He felt too spent to even keep his eyes open. The world swirled together in a brilliant, hazy soup of pleasure and warmth.

With his mind so pulled apart, it took Sherlock a moment to even realise that Irene was untangling his limbs for him, rolling him onto his back. His loud ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. He felt utterly spent and unable to move. But that was all right, because everything felt perfect and to top it all off, Irene had stretched her body out next to him and placed one hand on his chest, the other propped under her head as she looked down at him. Sherlock stared up at her in dumbfounded fascination, blinking away sweat droplets. He had no conscious thought for the moment, only  _feelings._ And he felt the world ought to stay like this forever.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient in the gap between chapters! Preparing for my job interview took a lot of time, and now I've got to bide my time as I wait to hear back. In the meantime, I'm eager to get back to this and thankful of your continued support.

Irene kept a hand on Sherlock's chest, measuring how high and quickly it rose and fell, watching the absolutely melted post-orgasmic expression on his face. It was a good five minutes before he had returned to anything like a normal heart rate and breathing pattern. Irene had stayed smiling slyly down at him all the while, taking in his state of utter abandonment with a mixture of pleasure and pride. Her own heart was beating in a much more measured manner. She was filled with warmth and fondness rather than heat and passion. But she was discovering that she didn't mind that at all.

When she thought she'd given him enough time to recover his breath and sense of surroundings, Irene leaned forward more and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Sherlock moved his mouth sluggishly, as if going through molasses. Irene smiled against his lips, then drew her head back a few inches. "You still in there? Or have I found the secret to defeating the great Sherlock Holmes?" she teased.

Sherlock blinked. "I... wasn't quite expecting that," he admitted, still sounding a bit out of breath. "I mean, obviously I was. But the combination of physical exertion and pleasurable chemicals was... overwhelming." He fidgeted a little on the bed, then asked with a shaky exhale, "Do you have a cigarette?"

Irene frowned slightly, "You've been smoking again? I thought you avoided that when you were clean. Part of your self-control, wasn't it?"

He swallowed, still looking unsettled. But he probably realised he couldn't lie to her. "No, I haven't been." He admitted, licking his lips anxiously. "But I also haven't been experiencing _this_." He drew a deep breath, almost a sigh of contentment, no doubt at the pleasurable mixture of chemicals still making its way through his brain and body.

Which was wonderful, yes. But Irene felt a small warning bell go off in the back of her mind. Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn't simply enjoy such a pleasure without some  _other_ associations coming to mind, even if completely unconsciously on his part. Not yet, anyway. And she knew his vices far too well to think that one anything - one cigarette, one line, one syringe full - was ever anything except the beginning of a horrible tidal wave. He gave her a pleading look, hands clearly jittery from the effects of the chemicals, and said, "Just  _one_  cigarette."

And she knew he thought he meant it. Just wanted to take the edge off and enjoy the pleasure without the innervating buzz. He wasn't looking for something more. But he didn't have to look for it to find him anyway. "No," she replied firmly.

He stopped breathing a second, taken aback by her stolid response, and seemed to really consider what she was getting at for the first time. Realisation clicked on his face, and Sherlock looked a little ashamed. "Oh, I hadn't been thinking of..." he started, then closed his eyes. They both knew he didn't really need to  _think_  about shooting up. It just presented itself to him if he wasn't vigilant. "Sorry. I don't mean to put you in that position."

"It's all right," Irene said. Now he was feeling self-conscious and she certainly didn't want that. She brushed some hair away from his eyes gently as she said, "I'm just looking out for you."

"Yes," Sherlock acknowledged, placing a hand on her cheek. He sounded the slightest bit surprised, as if just realising this. As if unused to her doing that for him. But Irene couldn't bring herself to be hurt by that. No, that was a more than fair reaction, if she were honest. As much as it pained her to admit it, too often in the past she decidedly  _hadn't_ been looking out for him. Not on this account. He gazed at her now sincerely. "Thank you," he said.

Irene turned her head and kissed his palm. Then she smiled at him. "It is good that you enjoy yourself, though," she noted. "That  _is_  the general idea. And on that account, wouldn't you call this a successful experiment, then?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused absently, his eyes fluttering closed.

Then he stilled in thought. His eyes opened, and now he was studying Irene with a sudden interest and slight worry. "Although the initial objective of the experiment wasn't meant to be about me," he said, wetting his lips nervously.

Shifting her weight, Irene tried to deflect this line of questioning, sensing it wouldn't lead them anywhere good. "No," she admitted. "But I was quite pleased with the results nonetheless."

But Sherlock didn't miss the way she dodged the unspoken question. Instead, he pushed himself up on his side, bringing his face even with hers as he stared at her intently, seriously. "But you didn't..." he trailed off, his delicate avoidance seeming both oddly out of place and somehow a bit sweet.

But Irene couldn't lie. He may have been extremely distracted, he may have had his brain practically melted with pleasure and the drugs his own body released into his bloodstream, but Irene knew that a melted-brained Sherlock Holmes was still likely to have observed closely, even if only subconsciously. She bit her lip momentarily, then shook her head. Sherlock's face fell, and Irene did her best to cut off what she could tell his line of thinking must be. "But that's certainly not to say it wasn't pleasurable. There are many levels of pleasure along the way that should be enjoyed in and of themselves. And I more than enjoyed myself, Sherlock. It isn't  _all_  about having an orgasm."

Hearing the word only made Sherlock wince and grimace. "I was incredibly selfish, wasn't I?" he asked anxiously. "I ought to have continued applying manual stimulation-"

" _I_  was the one who told you to stop that and get on with it," Irene reminded him. She had to put his mind at ease. She knew that once he got himself thinking along a certain path, his natural tendency was to rapidly and thoroughly explore every possible implication. Usually, he wound up focusing on the negatives. It was part of his contrary demeanour that was oddly appealing to Irene, yet could on occasion get the best of him. She put a hand under his chin and forced Sherlock to look at her. "Sherlock,  _I'm fine._  You did splendidly. Regardless of the impression you might have got from  _Cosmo_ , this is actually quite common."

"How long have we been lying here?" Sherlock asked, eyes darting to the clock. "At least five minutes? Which means the intercourse itself could only have lasted a few minutes. Hardly sufficient time to bring a woman to orgasm." He looked back to Irene, searching her face carefully. Then, matter-of-factly, he stated, "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

Irene let out a sigh. Evidently they weren't going to be able to avoid this conversation. As seemingly unconcerned with the opinions of others as he was, Irene had found up close that Sherlock could actually be quite sensitive in the rare cases where he opened himself up to scrutiny. She used her free hand to rub gentle circles on the back of his neck as she replied thoughtfully, "Actually I'd say you have a natural affinity for detail and precision that is quite useful in this area. But you're also new at this. It takes practice and acclimation. Were you any good at the violin the fourth time you played it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips."No. But I also wasn't allowed to practice around others until I could play something that wouldn't burst their eardrums." He paused briefly before adding, tightly, "And it's the fifth time."

"What?" Irene asked, though as soon as she did, she realised what he was getting at and felt her stomach sink a little knowing that's where his mind had gone.

Still, there was no stopping him as he continued in the same strained tone, "If we're going just on all our  _attempts_  to have sex, then I've had some kind of sexual dysfunction two out of the five times we've been together. It seems abnormally high."

"That other time..." Irene began, drawing a deep breath and thinking about her words very carefully. The last thing she needed was to say something that was going to wind up haunting the poor man. He was clearly taking every moment of their time together to heart. Finally, she said, "You know as well as I that the first time was solely due to the cocaine. Which you're not doing again, so there's no need to dwell on that. And this instance, well, as I said, it's actually quite common and normal. I wouldn't necessarily call it a  _dysfunction._ Really, I ought to have predicted what your physical reaction to that degree of contact might have been. I could have helped... relieve some of the pressure first."

Sherlock shifted, obviously still a bit uncomfortable talking so openly about things like this. At least as it related personally to himself. He was quite happy to mention other people's sexual activities and proclivities. Obviously he was still just at the beginning of exploring and understanding his own. "You think that would have helped?" he questioned.

"Almost certainly," Irene replied truthfully. She didn't know why it hadn't occurred to her earlier. Well, no, that wasn't true. She knew perfectly well why she hadn't considered it, and felt she owed him saying that much. "It's partly my fault. I was in no mood to slow things down any further. But, as I said, I was also quite satisfied anyway. And yes, of course you'll get better with practice."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "But this isn't like practising the violin. There was no need to subject someone else to my lack of ability in that case. Not until I was actually capable."

"In this case, at some point a partner is required for adequate practice," Irene countered with a small shrug.

Sherlock's grimace deepened and his tone grew tight as he spat back, "Someone as experienced as you doesn't need the equivalent of a sweaty, inelegant teenager  _practising_  on top of them."

Ah, there it was. So he  _was_  feeling embarrassed and insecure after all, as she she suspected. "That's not at all how it felt to me," she said firmly, letting the edge of annoyance creep into her tone. If he was going to be recalcitrant and committed to self-pity, she'd have to work harder to break through to him. "I can hardly force you to believe me." Irene rolled away from him, onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.  _His move,_  she thought. Of course she wanted him to give in. But she was hardly going to beg him.

Sherlock turned his focus down to the bedspread, his voice becoming quiet but even. "At the very least, perhaps you ought to reconsider the monogamy aspect of this arrangement."

Irene could feel her eyes burning angrily as they darted over to him. He avoided her gaze, but she made sure he could hear the annoyance she was feeling as she replied, "You want me to sleep with other people."

Swallowing, Sherlock kept his eyes fixed anywhere but on hers. He continued, laying out his case as if he were speaking to John about a sequence of factual case details, "I want you to be sexually satisfied. I don't want to be solely responsible for your external sexual fulfilment. I can only see that being incredibly frustrating and disappointing for you, not to mention an enormous amount of pressure and expectation on me that I can't possibly live up to."

Irene studied the detective a moment. She could see him retreating in on himself. She could let him go. It would be easy. But a magnetic pull between them instead drew her up onto her side, caused her to lean in and stare him down challengingly, with her own particular brand of grace and ease. "Would you be sleeping with other people?" she asked, sounding casual, but with an underpinning of force in her words.

Sherlock must have recognized that tone, because his eyes finally flicked up to hers. He blinked, seeming to remember who he was speaking to, and everything that said person embodied to him because he swallowed hard before answering, "Of course not."

Raising an eyebrow, Irene asked, "Why 'of course not' for you?"

"Because I'm not interested in anyone else," Sherlock replied, his tone softening a little.

Irene matched him in pitching her own voice down, taking the edge out of her tone as she placed a hand on his side and eyed him evenly, "Neither am I. You assume that because I'm sexually experienced that I'm constantly thinking about getting off with every man or woman I come across? Do you really not understand my feelings for you by now? We've just gone over this."

Sherlock's right arm seemed to move towards her of its own volition, his hand reaching up, knuckles stroking the side of her cheek. A small apologetic gesture that seemed to surprise both of them in its tenderness. He stopped, and Irene studied the rare soft expression in his eyes. Sherlock slid his hand down to her side, a slightly less intimately tender location as he cleared his throat and replied, "Of course I do. But I understand that emotional needs and physical needs may differ."

Now Irene leaned in closer to him until her chest leaned down against his. Her face was inches from his own and his breath seemed to catch a little as she said pointedly, "I don't  _want_ my physical needs to be fulfilled by anyone else. I don't care how much practice you require to refine your craft. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice sounding slightly tight.

"Good," she said, leaning in and giving him a quick but firm kiss. When she pulled back, Irene found herself adding, without really thinking, "Because the sensations I experience with you are new to me as well." He gave her an uncertain look, and she felt some deep emotional alarm going off. Instead, she lifted her voice to a lighter tone and raised an eyebrow as if in thought, "I don't necessarily mean the acts themselves, although in the configuration we just used I admit to having more experience in the dominant position."

That certainly had the desired effect. Sherlock blinked, as if uncertain he was hearing correctly. His brow furrowed, and it was clear he was considering not saying anything until, as predicted, curiosity got the best of him, "What? In that position... You mean with other women?" he asked, seemingly genuinely curious and lacking in caution. Ever the scientist.

Irene considered just how much she wanted to shock the poor boy. The edges of her mouth curled up ever so slightly before she forced her lips back into a thoughtful line. "Mostly other women," she concurred with a small nod and a glance off into space. Then, unable to resist, she looked back down at Sherlock, who was now fairly pinned beneath her on the bed and looking up at her with furrowed brow. Irene grinned at him and said silkily, "Though that experience isn't off limits to men. You know, if you'd like some time, I certainly have the hardware..." she trailed off, seeing Sherlock's eyes flicker with realisation that was tinged with fear more than arousal. His mouth fell open and he seemed to be trying to stammer out a question about how serious she was. Irene smiled toothily, but decided to let the poor man off the hook. No,  _that_  definitely wasn't something he was ready for. He may never be, which was fine. But making him squirm had been too much fun to resist.

Irene let out a laugh, and Sherlock's expression relaxed. "Never mind that. I just wanted to see whether you'd blush or blanch." She chuckled and twirled a hand absently through his wavy hair. "The latter, definitely," she said, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. Then, giving him a bit of a break she added, thoughtfully, "Actually, yesterday  _was_  a first, though."

"Really?" he asked, his colour returning to normal.

"Mmm," she replied truthfully. "I've not had all that many men and certainly none of my uni boyfriends were ever quite that ambitious. Or strong," she rumbled, giving his arms a small squeeze. It was, after all, a unique positive in a man. And she'd been just as surprised as she wagered Sherlock had hoped she would be to find him up to the task. He deserved a bit of an ego boost for his achievement. "And I found that quite enjoyable," she said, surprised at how soft her voice had become. Not with suggestion, but fondness.

"I thought so," Sherlock said, just a bit proud of himself.

"But that's not all I mean," Irene said, without really thinking about where she was going with this. She looked at him more seriously, and his gaze mirrored hers. Irene swallowed, looking him in the eye and feeling suddenly rather nervous. It was a largely unfamiliar feeling for her, but the words seemed to tumble from her lips unbidden, "When I say that what I experience with you is new to me, I mean additionally, or perhaps mostly, on an emotional level. I've had sex and been around sex a great deal in my life, Sherlock. But I don't know that I've ever ma-" she bit her lip. Preposterously, now  _she_ seemed to be the one feeling uncertain and a little embarrassed. Hadn't she just avoided this dangerous emotional territory, only to have her treacherous heart pull them right back in? What on earth was wrong with her? They'd had the talk, come to a mutual agreement. That ought to be enough uncomfortable feelings-related things for the day.

Thankfully Sherlock seemed just as uneasy with where this was going. Irene tried not to think of just how perfect this made him for her. They broke eye contact, silently agreeing to let that dangerous subject drop. But instead of pulling away, Irene felt Sherlock reaching up and pulling her down towards him, into a deep and slow kiss. Their warm bodies connected in a manner that was now more relaxing that exciting.

After a few moments, Sherlock rolled Irene gently over onto her back and broke the kiss. He let his hands roam slowly up and down her torso, around the curve of her breast and hips as he propped himself up on his left arm. "May I propose a different solution?" he asked, sounding a bit hesitant.

"This is a scientific process. New theories are always welcome to be tested," Irene replied, trying to sound as playfully matter-of-fact as possible. He was evidently a little nervous about whatever he was going to ask, and she did her best to put him at ease.

Sherlock's eyes darkened, then he dipped his head down to kiss her stomach. Irene felt her skin break out in goose pimples, her back arching slightly as he moved his head lower and flicked his warm tongue into her navel. A sigh escaped her lips, and Sherlock correctly took that as encouragement. He lifted one hand and gently pushed her knees apart. Irene instantly let her them fall to the sides, and Sherlock shifted his body downwards until he was settled more comfortably between her legs. Irene's heart beat hard, her head beginning to swim in anticipation as Sherlock tenderly laid wet, hot kisses on the tender skin of her left inner thigh. A tingling sensation spread from that spot towards her centre. Sherlock paused, his eyes flicking up to hers, questioning. "Is this all right?" he rumbled, and just the vibrations against her skin caused Irene to sigh pleasantly.

"Mmm, you see, this is why people hire you to solve their problems for them," Irene said, her hands wandering over to his head, unable to resist the desire to run her fingers through his thick, wavy hair.

Sherlock licked his lips, still looking at her, a bit chagrined. "I confess I don't have any better idea of what I'm doing here than what we were doing earlier."

"Well then you'll have to practice," Irene half-said, half-moaned, eager for him to start, her pulse below pounding strongly, her feet squirming against the covers in anticipation.

"Mmm," he hummed, nuzzling the soft skin where her leg met her body. Sherlock turned his eyes down to what was in front of him now as he asked, "Do you prefer internal or external stimulation, or some combination of both?" Irene was opening her mouth and searching for a way to answer that through the pleasurable haze in her mind when Sherlock interrupted, in all seriousness, "No, wait. I don't want you to bias my observations. I'll simply have to try each combination myself."

"If you insist," Irene began to say, but the last word wound up transforming into a hiss as Sherlock's tongue connected with her most sensitive flesh. She tugged involuntarily on his hair, her heels digging into the mattress as her muscles constricted with pleasure. As he explored her slowly, sensuously with his mouth as if savouring a deep, passionate kiss, Irene felt herself holding her breath, growing light-headed as her pelvic muscles contracted slightly in time with the motions of his mouth, the flicking of his tongue. The two of them stayed like that, locked in a blissful haze for several minutes. Her eyes had fluttered closed.

Finally, she relaxed into it a little, and the breath she'd been holding left her lungs as a long shudder tinged with what almost sounded like a whimper. Sherlock must have heard that, because he gave a deeply satisfied-sounding hum that vibrated against her, causing her internal muscles to contract in an involuntary jolt of pleasure. God, she loved this. Always did, but somehow it was different when it wasn't just  _some_  person making her feel this way, not just the sound of  _some_ voice acknowledging the pleasure being caused, but  _his_ voice and  _him_. And there seemed to be some other message there in the timbre of that low rumble, a slight warmth in his tone acknowledging not just the raw pleasure but the expression of sentiment that went with it. Or had she just been imagining that? With the warm electric currents of pleasure running out from her heavy centre, the involuntary slight movements of her legs and the drugged haze of her mind, she couldn't be quite sure she'd heard that correctly.

Irene forced her eyes open, and tilted her head down so that she could see Sherlock. And how she saw him. She hadn't been sure what she expected, but what she witnessed surprised her enough that her legs began to still their writhing, her breathing evened out as she watched him the way one might watch a deer from a close distance, careful not to spook it. Sherlock had placed one hand gently on her inner right thigh and the other was between her legs, holding her open to him as he worked his mouth slowly, sensuously over her. His brow was furrowed, not so much in concentration as in an almost softened expression of care. In fact, his whole demeanour was more that of a man deep in the midst of a passionate kiss than a potentially crude-seeming sex act. Irene suddenly felt as if she were spying, seeing what Sherlock must look like in those moments when their mouths were locked and their eyes closed in that silent agreement that lovers have not to look at one another too closely. But she could see him now, could see a part of him that she was certain no one, not even he, had ever known existed.

Here was a man - a brilliant, sharp, strong man who'd pulled himself up from innumerable hells, some of his own creation, some of hers, some he'd simply been thrown into. A man who made people cower and fidget before his icy stare and cutting intellect, his seemingly ruthless commitment to doing whatever it took to solve a case, to win. A man who was apparently impossible to shake or move. And a man who, when no one, not even he, was looking, openly, tenderly, and completely adored her.

The tremor that left her lips this time was different. Tinged not so much with pleasure, though there was that. Instead, Irene found that her throat had constricted rather suddenly just after, and her eyes stung ever so slightly. A different kind of burning had lodged itself in her chest. She found that her hands had stilled in his hair, and now her entire body had come to rest as she gazed down at him.

After a few moments, Sherlock must have noticed that Irene had stopped moving, that her breath had grown shallow and trembling, because he slowly opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly. When he caught sight of what must be her not entirely successful attempt to keep the wave of strong sentiment she was feeling off her face, his expression quickly turned to one of alarm. "Is something the matter?" he asked, his left hand clenching slightly on her inner thigh in unconscious anxiety.

Irene's mind immediately flashed back to a similar situation back in Tel Aviv, the one Sherlock was no doubt about to start worrying over himself if he wasn't already, when she had pushed him away from his offer to pleasure her, much to his humiliation. She was quick to drop her right hand to cover his, squeezing it reassuringly as she cupped his face with her left hand. "No, far from it," she whispered, throat still too tight with emotion to vocalise. She coughed a little to loosen it up.

He looked only marginally less concerned, and Irene realised she'd have to be more direct. She gave him a tight, shaky smile and stroked the side of his face as she struggled to find her voice. The emotions she was experiencing were ones he simply wasn't equipped or experienced in observing. They weren't the kind he could have seen in an interview room or any sort of public place, nor a private home. It was, in fact, an intimacy and degree of sentiment Irene had rarely felt herself. Sherlock seemed downright flabbergasted at what he was witnessing, almost a little frightened now. Finally, Irene said, "I was just thinking of how brilliant you are."

Sherlock blinked in confusion, seeming to be in a bit of a heady state of arousal himself. "And my intelligence helps with this...?"

"No," Irene corrected, now moving both her hands to the sides of his head, running her fingers in gentle circles through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I don't mean your mind. I mean  _you. You're_  brilliant. As a person."

"Oh," he said, the expression on his face shifting slowly, sobering as he realised what she really meant. He stared at her a moment. Then Sherlock pushed himself up on the bed and slowly crawled his way up the length of Irene's body until he was hovering above her, the warmth of his skin radiating so close to hers. She gazed up into his eyes, breathless. He looked back down at her, in wonder, almost as if seeing her for the first time.

They seemed to stay like that for ages, locked in orbit around one another, until finally Sherlock slowly lowered his body onto hers, enveloping her in a warm, comforting embrace as he turned his head and kissed her slowly, yearningly. Just the feel of Sherlock on top of her sent a wave of contentment through Irene; drugs in her brain telling her this was right. Though she didn't need drugs for that. She knew. But perhaps he wanted to make sure  _he_  knew.

One of her hands slid up to tangle in his hair while the other caressed his back. As Irene gently pushed back against Sherlock's tongue with her own, she shifted her hips to create a bit of space between them and slid her hand from his back around to his navel. She felt him tense slightly, his muscles tightening as he sucked hard on her tongue and grasped her sides with his fingers. Taking that as a positive sign, Irene slid her hand lower, beginning to stroke gently.

A choked groan emanated from Sherlock's throat, muffled by Irene's mouth locked onto his. But then his statuesque posture changed. To her surprise, he broke the kiss and pushed himself up and off to her side, pulling away from her with a small hiss and visible wince. Irene looked at him in question, and Sherlock took a second to even out his breathing before replying, haltingly, "Sensitive, sorry. It's not that I ... wouldn't like to. I'm still a bit... in spite of my enthusiasm and novice, I am 37, not 17...I don't think my refractory period..."

Having understood him right away and pained to see him stumble awkwardly over the words, Irene actually let out a soft, " _shhh_ " and placed a finger to his lips. Sherlock paused his rambling, staring over at her with the desired attentiveness. "That's fine. Just thought I'd check," Irene said with a soft smile, brushing a still-sweaty curl off his forehead. God, he was irresistible like this, tender and excited and just a bit messy. She recalled quite fondly the secret look of deep care and adoration she'd so recently witnessed on his face, and that extra layer made her chest ache once more. She leaned over and placed a delicate kiss in the hollow of his throat.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed contentedly, his eyes falling shut a moment as he stroked her back with his left hand. Suddenly, his eyelids cracked open halfway, and he stared back at her in thought. "You've distracted me from my experiment," he stated in both realisation and accusation.

"Certainly not on purpose," Irene replied, still running a hand affectionately through his damp hair. " _You_ rather distracted  _me_ ," she pointed out.

Sherlock reached up and caught her wrist in his hand, eyeing her in what to her surprise looked like somewhat playful suspicion. "That was the point," he countered, and still holding her right wrist, pushed her back into a supine position, pinning her arm above her head. Moving with his characteristic quick grace, Sherlock rolled himself back onto her, using his own knees to push hers apart as he crouched between her legs. Irene felt her whole body throb with a hard pulse of her heart. Her skin, which had remained warm, grew positively searing once again.

Hovering still at eye level with her, Sherlock's now-stormy gaze made her tremble with anticipation. When he ducked his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, Irene's back arched and a soft moan escaped her lips. With the hand that wasn't holding her wrist, Sherlock began stroking and re-preparing the area he'd been so attentive to before. Irene felt her pelvic muscles flex in response, and let her eyes fall shut as she squirmed a little against him. She felt Sherlock's unruly hair grazing the soft skin between her breasts as his head roved, his warm tongue now licking teasingly at her skin. Irene's legs clenched tightly around his hand in her heavy lower depths. God, how she wanted that tongue back down there. He knew precisely what he was doing in teasing her like this. For a novice, he was being terribly devious. But then, perhaps that oughtn't to have surprised her.

As he kissed his way wetly and terribly slowly down her torso, Sherlock dragged his hand from Irene's wrist down her arm, stopping at her breast. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, then began tugging on it gently as he dipped his tongue into her navel, all the while lazily circling and rubbing the flesh below with his right hand. The warm lashes of pleasure running through her core came from all three directions, and Irene couldn't stop the unabashed hungry moan that escaped her lips. She needed more now, much more. The pressure building within her dictated that, and had resumed its earlier, briefly interrupted state.

Without bothering to second guess herself, Irene placed her hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders, nudging him further downward as her hips instinctively rolled in suggestion. The detective tipped his head up from his spot at her navel to look at her, his eyebrows raising in surprise over his darkened eyes. "That eager?" he asked, and Irene swore she could hear the tiniest amount of pride in his questioning tone.

Her own voice had grown ragged, her breathing uneven as the sweat had begun dripping down her tightly constricting throat. She was fully aware of how obviously undone she was becoming but couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. She dug her nails lightly into his shoulders as she managed to gasp out, "I'm a big supporter of the sciences."

At that, Sherlock chuckled, that new and wonderful sound she'd never heard emanating from him until today, the rumble of his voice vibrating against her only adding to the awful, delicious tension. To her immense relief, he finally shifted downward, placing a kiss on her inner thigh as he settled in. "Well, it's important to show appreciation to one's benefactors. After all, we scientists would be out on the streets without them," Sherlock said, his tone sounding oddly a touch serious. But before Irene had any chance to second guess if there were a deeper meaning to the seemingly cheeky remark, she felt him connect right where she wanted him.

His tongue went to her flesh; her hands went to his hair; whatever star she was orbiting went supernova.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I just started a new job this week (what's better, a job as a writers' assistant on a major television drama), so I've been really busy. I'm going to have to scale back updates to once a week at most, but I love this story and have it all planned out so rest assured I'm not about to forget about it. The speed I can write will just depend on work elements that are out of my control. Now, enjoy the new chapter!

The afternoon sun beamed down on John and Mary in a ridiculously pleasant manner. There was a light breeze in the air, gusting off the river a few blocks away and flitting through the stone streets of Florence just to make sure no one walking along them was a touch too warm. It was like a world designed rather than naturally occurring. Sitting at the outdoor restaurant in front of their hotel, John considered that even the lunch they'd just had, with its slightly rustic tomato sauces and seasoned meats, had been the sort of fantastic thing one saw on a travel show.

John looked across the table at his fiancée. The dark gold tendrils of her ever-messy hair caught the sunlight. Her pale skin shone like the marble of one the city's many flawless statues. That's what he had seen when he'd returned from the church, when Sherlock had practically ordered him to go back and sleep with her. John had taken great offense to having his private life orchestrated in such a way.

But then he'd arrived back at their hotel and seen Mary sitting on their balcony overlooking the Palazzo della Republica, legs stretched out as she lounged in the sun with her papers. John had paused there in their room before she'd noticed him, just staring breathlessly. Sometimes he couldn't quite believe his luck, couldn't fathom how he'd stumbled into a relationship with someone so smart, lovely, and caring. It had happened when he'd least been looking for it, when he'd most needed it, and when he'd had nothing else to hang on to. Sherlock had been dead, the world had been gutted, and Mary had been his rock. And she would continue to be for the rest of their lives.

In spite of the protestation he'd given to Sherlock, John had wound up gathering Mary in his arms immediately, carried her to their luxurious king-sized bed, and made love to her passionately yet tenderly. She'd had no objections about her work or his. She hadn't asked where Sherlock was. The world had just been them in a way that, in truth, it hadn't been in the last six months since Sherlock had returned. In an odd way, the best part of all of it had been the quiet room and the way she just stared and smiled at him while running her fingers through his short hair for a long while afterwards.

They'd eventually dragged themselves down for some much-needed nutrition, and now as he basked in the glow of the sun and the afterglow of love, John was thoroughly convinced that this was the most wonderful place on the planet. "I think," he began as he picked up his credit card, having got his bill back, "that there isn't possibly any way this place could get more pleasant."

Mary raised an eyebrow and took a sip of her sparkling water "Is that a challenge?" she asked.

John laughed. "Wasn't meant as one, but I suppose it couldn't hurt," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Got something in mind? I'll preemptively say I'm up for it. A walk, a museum, a boat ride on the Arno... returning to the room." Here he took a sip of his water, casually, innocently.

"Very generous of you," Mary replied, a knowing amused glint in her eye that said she understood that as a man, if given the option, John would probably always choose going back up to the room.

"Well I'm amenable like that," he deadpanned. Then, more seriously, he added, "No, as much as I'd like that, this is an incredible place and we should probably take the chance to do something we wouldn't normally do. I seem to remember that's what holidays are for, though it's been a really long time since I've had a proper one." Actually, now that he thought about it, John wasn't sure he'd really been on holiday since before he'd joined the army. Blimey. He'd done some traveling, all right, but that was as far from leisurely as it got. He silently thanked Sherlock again for thinking to bring Mary along. Not to mention for giving them so much free time. It was far more than John had expected they'd have while the case was still active. A small part of him felt odd, like they ought to be doing more work. But if Sherlock thought this was the best course of action, then obviously it was. He'd never do something to jeopardize a case.

Mary got up from the table, breaking John out of his reverie, and he stood as well. "The concierge told me about a supposedly magnificent and unique spa over near the Duomo," she said. "They do all sorts of unique skin rubs and treatments. It sounded exotic."

"Sounds expensive more like," John muttered, but Mary had already clasped his hand firmly in hers and started walking out of the restaurant and across the Piazza. They passed the magnificent fountain, statues of nymphs surrounded by water, tiny mist droplets drifting out on the wind acting as a natural air conditioner. Once again, John sighed, begrudgingly acknowledging that in this place he couldn't even really be annoyed at the prospect of spending a lot of money on silly spa treatments.

Santa Maria del Fiore, with its famous red-orange brick-tiled dome, was only a few short blocks from their hotel. John knew nothing about architecture, but even he could appreciate the basilica's beautiful grandeur, its dazzling patterned marble exterior. He and Mary had gone inside the day before, then up to the top of the dome to see the view of the city. Sure, it had all been a bit touristy, but it was  _fun_.

Really, he was starting to realise it had been ages since he'd just let himself relax. Even though Sherlock had been back among the living for six months, John was just now starting to shed the skin he'd put on for a year and a half before that, the weighty cloak of a man in mourning. Mary had helped him then, but he felt as though things were just now returning to normal. That his new life was just really beginning now. That the past could really start to be scrubbed away. Maybe a spa treatment wasn't an _awful_  idea.

It turned out Mary hadn't been kidding about this place being 'near the Duomo'; it was practically right behind it. An unobtrusive entrance was one of many doors in the long continuous row of buildings lining the pedestrian street. A tiny plaque with a buzzer next to it was the only identifying marker. Mary rang the buzzer as John glanced at the sign, which was in English. "Soul Space," he read, trying not to sound too sceptical.

"Oh you know how these places are. They've got to have a zen-sounding name of some kind, haven't they? Part of the atmosphere," Mary reasoned lightly.

The door opened, and a petite olive-skinned woman smiled down at them from the step above. "Buongiorno," she said, and they did their best to repeat the greeting. But that was enough to tell her they were British, and she continued in moderately accented English, "Welcome, come in." They followed her inside, off the street and into a low-lit, warmly decorated posh little waiting area. It was surprisingly nice, though John supposed now that the Savoy probably wouldn't have sent its well-paying customers to some dump. The woman circled around to behind a desk and opened a quaint paper appointment book. "I am Sofia. I will help you with anything. Do you have an appointment? Are you staying in one of the rooms?"

"Ah, no," John said, exchanging glances with Mary. "Didn't think about that. The concierge at the Savoy recommended it..."

The woman's eyes lit up with familiarity. "Ahh, Bruno, si. It is all right, we have plenty of space for appointments today. You would like a menu in English?"

"Yes, please," Mary said.

The agreeable young woman handed them a large list of items printed on fine stock paper. "I will let you look and come back in a moment," Sofia said, giving them a smile before slipping off to check on one of the other rooms.

John let out a sigh and settled himself onto a couch alongside Mary, who held the 'menu', regarding it thoughtfully. He leaned over to look at it, wondering what sorts of things a day spa even offered. " _Seventy_  euros for a massage? Is that how much a massage costs?"

"Apparently," Mary murmured, clearly trying to indicate with her soft tone that they should keep their voices down. "They've got aromatherapy. A sort of sauna thing, I think. Or maybe it's part of the Turkish bath?" she sounded completely uncertain as she squinted at the menu in the low light.

That made John feel a bit better. "So you've got no idea what any of this is, either," he pointed out with a small, knowing smile.

Mary kept a business-like face on, clearly determined to figure this spa thing out. "Well, no. But how difficult can it be? There are massages, skin treatments, things involving hot water. Really, it can't all be  _that_ complicated."

John gave Mary a sceptical look, paused, then quite deliberately pointed to one item on the menu. "That says 'Space Man', Mary. They've got a treatment called  _the Space Man_! What is this place?"

"I'm sure that's just a translation issue," Mary replied, sounding completely unsure.

Now John was shaking his head in bemusement as he noticed some of the other treatments listed. "The Chocolate Ritual, it says. They pour melted chocolate and coco on you and that's meant to do something or other nice for your skin. If you want chocolate poured on you, I'll do it for free," John muttered suggestively, immediately earning him a half-hearted slap on the arm. He grinned and, encouraged, continued, "And The Wine Ritual. How could that possibly do anything?"

Mary frowned. "It says here that involves rubbing grape skins all over your body as some kind of exfoliant. Not actual wine..." she attempted to explain.

"Oh,  _grape skins,_ yeah of course. Everyone knows that one," John deadpanned.

Mary met his stoic expression and playful eyes with a small smile and shake of her head. "You're awful," she said. "Can't we just have our one ridiculous posh people spa day?"

John looked at his fiancée, at the twinkle in her eye and the quirk of her lips, and thought he'd do just about anything to make her happy, no matter how silly or expensive. Anyway, they were rarely the kind to splurge or indulge. "You're right," he said, leaning over and giving her a quick but tender kiss. Pulling back, he smiled at her. "You deserve it." he said.

"We deserve it," she corrected, tugging affectionately at his shirt front and smiling back. Lifting the menu she said. "So what do you think. Just the regular couples package? Don't tell me you'd object so much to a massage and a hot bath?"

"No, I don't think I'll complain about that," John replied, the smile still firmly planted on his face. Again, he failed to believe his luck in finding a woman who fit him so perfectly. Who found his teasing and sarcasm charming rather than annoying, who was brilliant in her own field and didn't mind his own ridiculous line of work. Someone who'd not only accepted but embraced his admittedly close relationship with his extremely odd and often off-putting best friend. Hit with a new surge of appreciation, he kissed her again. "Why don't you choose some aroma therapy oil sauna... thing as well," he said."

Mary gave him a questioning look. "Oh? Why so agreeable all of a sudden? You're not about to tell me about the five different mistresses you've been running behind my back, are you?" she asked without a hint of seriousness.

"Hey, only four of them are mistresses; what Gary and I have is real," he replied with mock-seriousness, provoking a small gorgeous laugh from Mary. Then he said, "I was just thinking about the fact that you've lived with Sherlock for six months straight without a break or sizeable reward and this is the least I can do, really."

"I like Sherlock," Mary contested.

"I know you do," John replied. "Doesn't mean he's easy to live with."

"Fair enough. I don't really care what the reason is, if you're paying for a spa package, I'm going to take it," she said, leaning in and giving him a lingering, sensual kiss. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt a general sense of warmth and well-being flood him. He didn't need expensive spa treatments for that. He only needed her.

John couldn't help but think of Sherlock, off in some part of this beautiful city with its warm sun, stunning architecture, narrow stone streets, cool breeze, and romantic warmly-lit spas... but instead sat in a university hall listening to a boring lecture on wood grains. Or maybe he'd made his way to a natural history museum by now and was staring at the skeleton of some animal or another. John sighed as he pulled away from Mary, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and studying her face.

And suddenly he had a different thought about his friend, one that made him feel a bit sad. He knew that Sherlock truly enjoyed his bizarre interests, his solitary pursuits, and his complete detachment from all things romantic or pleasurable. But as John stared at Mary and felt his heart thud loudly with the particular sensation only produced by deep mutual love and desire for another person, he couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for his friend, who had never experienced that sort of feeling and probably never would. John couldn't help thinking to himself, with an inward sigh,  _Sherlock really doesn't know what he's missing._

* * *

An obscene low moan of pleasure fell from Sherlock's lips unbidden. The consulting detective lay on his back, arms reaching up blindly to grasp for purchase on Irene's sides as she straddled him, having taken him in rather deeply now, but moving her hips in still-slow circles. Her hands were planted on his chest, and she used them as support for herself as she leaned down to kiss him without otherwise breaking contact. In fact, the shift in position sent another jolt of pleasure through Sherlock, all the way down to his toes. He could feel the now familiar heavy, tight sensation gathering below. He was holding his breath and knew he shouldn't be, and forced himself to exhale, though it was shaky and barely helped. When he tried to open his mouth to articulate how close he was, his words turned into a few broken grunts instead as his own hips rose instinctually to meet hers.

"Close?" Irene whispered, her face inches from his, her breasts intermittently rubbing against his chest in a delightful manner.

Sherlock winced and nodded, knowing by now what would happen next. That she was about to stop moving and let him calm down a little before they resumed their motions. To help his stamina, she'd said. It was beginning to feel a bit more like torture. But this was the rhythm they'd settled into, had repeated three times now since Irene had turned the tables on him.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how  _that_  had happened, either. He'd been deep into his own experiment, finding he greatly enjoyed the power he had to pleasure her, to see her unravel and know he was entirely responsible. He'd succeeded in causing her to orgasm once externally with his mouth, once with a combination of his mouth externally and his fingers internally. The second had happened much more quickly, but of course Irene had already been incredibly sensitive from the first orgasm. In reality, Sherlock knew this was no good as an 'experiment', and that really only the first observation counted. To determine what really turned her on the most, he'd have to try the other methods on completely separate occasions, as independent variables...

He'd pushed aside that experimental problem for the sake of observing the results of the internal manual massage method, moving up to hover over her and observe the subtle changes in her expression triggered by the penetrating strokes of his hand. He'd just been getting rather aroused by this view of her when Irene had taken advantage of their new proximity. Without warning, she'd broken out of her undone, blissful state and shot a hand out, encircling and stroking his half-erection firmly a few times.

Needless to say, that had left Sherlock shocked and shuddering, which had been the perfect opportunity for Irene to shove him over onto his back, climb on top of him, slide his fingers out of her, and replace them with a wholly different part of his anatomy. It had happened in what had felt to his hormone-addled brain like no time at all. He recalled the fierce look of prideful domination in Irene's eye and the slow, tortuous way in which she'd clenched around him and swirled her hips. He'd let his head fall back limply onto the pillow, and had gladly given her the lead. As if he had any other choice.  _One chance to do things her way,_ he reminded himself. He'd agreed to this. He'd just sort of forgot about that.

But now here they were, some indeterminate period of time later, and they were both covered in sweat and long-restrained hungry desire. Sherlock slid his hands up from Irene's sides to tweak her nipples, urging her onward and happily producing a small groan from the back of her throat. Sherlock's brain and body were now screaming at him to bring things to completion. So he moved one hand up behind Irene's neck, lifted himself up slightly off the bed onto his other elbow, and forced her face close to his, his eyes locking on her darkly determined ones. He knew the plea was there in his expression, but he didn't have enough pride left to bother letting anything remain ambiguous. "Please," he gasped, with an upward roll of his hips.

Irene, her breathing also ragged and her porcelain skin flushed all over with arousal, still managed to seem utterly in control and commanding as she stared down at him evenly. "Mercy?" she asked, breathless, as she leaned forward and bit at his bottom lip, scratching one hand down his chest as the other cradled the back of his head.

Sherlock couldn't help the whimper that escaped his throat, and saw the flash of satisfaction in Irene's eyes at that. Of course this is what she wanted. She may have indeed been helping him last longer, attempting to address an issue he'd brought up earlier in the day. But she was also enjoying this very, very much. He was mad with need, and his instinct was to hide that weakness, to shut it away instantly. It should have frightened him, both having this vulnerability and her  _knowing_  he had it. On second thought, though, that wasn't how a relationship was supposed to work, was it? Weren't you supposed to … open yourself up? And wasn't that what this was now, what they'd decided on? A relationship?

So Sherlock bit back his instinct to run, to hide, to bury his weakness and desires deep inside his mind, to lock them away lest they be used against him. He would leave them there for her to see. Though it utterly terrified him. He thought his heart might be pounding now more from fear than from arousal, but as he stared up at Irene's perfectly brilliant, devious eyes, tiny knowing smile, he could see both the razor-sharp intelligence and the surprisingly gentle care she put into every ounce of affection exhibited towards him. And the fear melted away, replaced by an oddly warm feeling of what he might call fondness, if he were certain that was something he had experience feeling. Irene belonged. That's all he knew. The rest of the confusing bits he'd figure out later.

So Sherlock brushed his lips against hers and whispered, now less crazed with desire but more purposeful in his intent, "Mercy, Irene."

Something in his manner stopped her, made her pull back and study him a moment, as if pleasantly surprised rather than proudly victorious. Then she clenched her internal muscles tightly, and surged forward to wrap her arms around his neck as she pulled him into a sloppy, aggressive kiss. With his elbows and arms supporting his upper body in his propped position, Sherlock couldn't reach up to hold her. He could only lie there, at her mercy as she began rocking against him with a ferocity that matched the manner in which her mouth attacked his.

His own hips rolled and thrust upwards with increasing lack of precision as he let himself go, drinking in the occasional hungry contact with her mouth as the maddening pressure built below and sent sparks flying through his mind. Irene now braced herself with both hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to pull herself down onto him, hard. Sherlock gasped, greedily pressing himself into the contact, increasing the friction between them as much as possible as Irene now ground against him forcefully. She sucked in a sharp breath herself, and he knew they'd found just the right angle for her. In silent agreement, they stilled any unnecessary motions laterally and instead thrust together, him following her pace and rhythm.

Then Irene's pelvic muscles clenched around him, her nails dug into his shoulders so sharply he thought she might break the skin, and she leaned forward to press her lips halfway to his as she moaned out his name. That sound and that messy kiss, more than the wild sensation of her around him, was what pushed Sherlock over the edge. Desperate to free his arms from the weight of his upper body so he could touch her, he dropped back onto the pillow, quickly reaching up to take hold of Irene's sides to steady her as she trembled through her orgasm.

Before she was quite done, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Irene, pulling her down towards him, needing to feel her body against his, wanting to hold her tightly and never let go. He saw the look of utter ecstasy, satisfaction, and yes, fondness in her now unfocused gaze. He wanted her to see that he felt the same. Sherlock looked into her eyes as the brilliant buzzing, pulse-pounding sensation in both his brain and body finally hit the point of no return. His throat was dry, he was covered in sweat and the smell of sex and Irene and whatever mad hormonal process was doing all of this to him. He finally held her tightly to him and let himself go, crying out her name in abandon as the waves of pleasure pulsed through him at last. She covered his mouth with hers and kissed him deeply, making his head swim with the perfection of it all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you're eyes don't deceive you. I am indeed resuming this story after taking an extremely long time off. I'm into my second year of pro work now and have a better idea of how to balance that with my own fun. And I'm passionate about this story, so I hope there are still some people out there still interested in it. Because we are just approaching what I think will be the best stuff.
> 
> To put your minds at ease, I'm almost done with Chapter 14 already ;)

Irene kept her mouth on Sherlock's, sucking on his tongue as his ecstatic, powerful orgasm pulsed into her. He grasped her shoulder blades, pulling her as close as possible as their hot, sweat-covered bodies melted together. They stayed locked in that embrace for several long, enthralling, blissful moments. Finally, every muscle in Sherlock's body relaxed, and he gave a long, shaky exhale through his nose, prompting Irene to unlatch her lips from his.

To her pleasant surprise, she was trembling as much as he was in the powerful post-orgasmic state they'd put themselves into. He wasn't the only one for whom dragging everything out had built up a maddening desire. She was simply an expert at controlling such desires. But she was also an expert at knowing when to give in to them. And had they ever succeeded on that account. Irene barely had enough energy to slide off of Sherlock and over to his side. She settled her head in the crook of his neck, kissing him lightly there, tasting the blissful mixture of salt and hormones on his skin. In his current spent state, she knew it would give him more of a warm feeling of comfort than a thrilling buzz of pleasure. He made a small humming sound of curiosity, and Irene could just tell he was making a mental note about needing to study the change in erogenous zones in a post-coital situation. She smiled against his neck.

"Now see," Irene said, breaking into the state of lazy reverie. "Wasn't that better? I wasn't torturing you after all."

"You're hardly the one to judge that," Sherlock replied, though with an uptick of humor in his ragged voice. He sighed pleasurably and closed his eyes, running a hand through Irene's damp hair. "You were very patient. Thank you," he murmured.

"I'd say we both reaped the rewards," Irene said, smiling against him and rubbing an affectionate hand on his chest as she kissed his neck gently. She was aware this sort of gesture was unlike her, but for some reason it felt like the right thing to do at the moment. Evidently the pleasurable chemicals in her brain combined with her physical exhaustion in precisely the right way to put her into a kind of drugged, soupy mental and, yes,  _emotional_  state. She felt contented and at ease in a way she wasn't quite sure she ever had before. Moreover, she was acting on her sentimental impulses without second-guessing. If it meant exposing a new side of her to Sherlock, so be it. He was starting to get a grasp on what  _she_ liked. That was only fair.

"Yes. I suppose it helped that you were more sensitive. Perhaps in the future I ought to engage you in that way more often before moving on to intercourse," he mused. Irene wasn't about to argue with that. But Sherlock paused and stopped stroking her hair, as if something were just occurring to him. Then, he ventured tentatively, "That is, of course, if... do you enjoy intercourse?"

There was a silent moment wherein Irene couldn't quite comprehend his question. She pushed herself up on her elbow and looked down at him, letting her extreme confusion show. "Are you genuinely asking me if I like having sex?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, looking a little frightened of her sudden intensity as he too pushed himself up into a reclined position. "I'm asking you if you enjoy  _intercourse._ "

As the specificity of the question sank in, Irene relaxed a little. "Ah," she said, as she found herself giving into a strange urge she had to reach over and stroke the sweat-soaked hair around Sherlock's brow out of his face. He seemed so intent and earnest, she knew she ought to answer seriously. "Yes, I do. I'd have thought that much would be obvious by now."

"I just thought perhaps given your experience... And as far as this experiment goes... I've observed that you respond more directly to oral and manual stimulation." Here Sherlock paused and looked at her carefully, almost as if he were working up the nerve to say the next thing. And nerve was not something Sherlock could normally have been said to lack. Usually, he had the opposite problem. Irene wondered what could make him this hesitant. Finally, he said, "I admit I'm rather fond of intercourse, but if it's not something you enjoy very much, we don't have to do that. We could stick to-"

Irene cut him off with a hard, insistent kiss that seemed to take all the air out of his lungs. When she pulled back, his lips were a lovely deep pink shade to match the flush of his skin. He seemed very surprised and a bit confused. Irene for her part could only wonder at being with a man who would so casually suggest they could drop the main means of heterosexual sex out of their routine if it didn't suit her. As if he were suggesting that they could have orange juice with or without the pulp. Irene couldn't help shaking her head a little as she replied, "You're quite ridiculous sometimes, Sherlock." She chuckled softly, thinking of how almost clinical he'd managed to make this, in the midst of all this extreme sensuality. "As for my sexual history, it's obvious fluid. I can't account for this entirely, but I  _very_  much enjoy intercourse with you."

"Good," he replied with a curt, almost business-like nod. She imagined him ticking that off some experimental results form in his mind.

But now this had brought something else to mind for her. An opening, really, for her to prod at him. "Out of curiosity, in this framework where we wouldn't be having intercourse but you'd be performing oral sex on me, how were  _you_  planning on getting pleasure?" It was a leading question, a blatant trap, but she didn't care. She was too damned curious about what had happened yesterday in his brief moment of panic, and whether it was something he could push through.

"Well," he began, haltingly, thoughtfully. "I presumed you could... touch me."

"Mmm," Irene said with a teasing grin. "Is that all?"

Judging by the way he shifted on the bed, Sherlock understood perfectly well what she was getting at. The more surprising thing was just how embarrassed he was getting about it. He was normally so hard to perturb. Excellent, she was on to something, then. "I suppose there are other kinds of sex as well," he hedged.

Now she gave him a delightfully bemused grin. "You can't even say it," she drawled with a slight shake of her head. "I've always known you were inexperienced, but I never thought you'd be  _shy._ " She'd observed that many of the sexual arenas men grew shy about were the things they actually most desired to try. But coming from the supremely frank Sherlock, it was still a little surprising. And was, in actuality, incredibly endearing. Which was probably the last thing on earth Sherlock wanted to be.

Now he glared at her irritably. "I'm not  _shy_. I'm merely attempting to choose my vocabulary carefully. Vulgarity is beneath you." Irene couldn't help but notice that he'd said 'you' rather than 'us', as if he were sticking up for her honour specifically. Which was ironic, not just because her whole profession involved a good deal of vulgarity, but considering she  _had_ got a bit vulgar earlier and he'd seemed to be far from objecting then. Still, she did appreciate the sentiment. Sherlock shifted and continued, "And believe it or not, I hadn't really thought much about … fellatio," she swore she saw him wince as he said it, "... until you tried it yesterday."

Well, at least he'd said it. That was progress, anyway. Now they could talk about this like adults. And Irene could, hopefully, find out why he'd reacted the way he had yesterday. "You had a rather strong reaction to it. A good kind of strong at first, but clearly something changed along the way. Did you not enjoy it?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking at her as if he was just realising that this was what she'd wanted to get to talking about through all the teasing. That seemed to make him relax a little. She knew he was uncomfortable with not knowing or understanding something going on around him. There was that incessant need of his to solve everything. He looked pleased to have figured this much out. "No," he continued, more at ease now, "From what I could tell, I think I might enjoy it immensely. It was a lot to take in-"

"A bit prideful. I'd say a slightly above average amount to take in," Irene said, unable to contain her misbehaviour. If solving problems was second nature to him, creating them was equally so to her. There were no two ways about it.

Sherlock, however, just stared at her blankly. "What?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Your-" Irene bit her lip, doing her best to suppress a wicked smile. She knew for all his attentiveness, innuendos sometimes went completely over his head. How many times had she asked him to 'have dinner' before he'd finally realised what she meant? Still, she reminded herself that she actually did want to  _talk_  to him about this. Irene cleared her throat and waved a hand. "Never mind, you were saying?" she prompted.

He gave her a suspicious look, then brushed it aside and continued, "The sensation was rather intense. I think I'd be able to handle it, but it wasn't only that..." he trailed off.

"Yes, I gathered there was more to it," Irene said, raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. It was up to him to get through this explanation. Pushing him any more would just spook him.

Sherlock stared at her a long moment, evaluating her with furrowed brow. Sizing up what he thought her response would be to this next bit of information. She could just tell his brain was whirring even though his expression changed only slowly. Finally, he looked at her and said, reluctantly, "I don't think I like being restrained."

"Oh," Irene said, sitting up fully and moving to lean against the headboard as she took that in. She certainly remembered the near panic attack he'd had the one time she'd tied him to her bed before. The cocaine had been mostly to blame for his reaction; but the restraints certainly hadn't helped.

Sherlock, still lying reclined on his side, looked up at her anxiously. "I'm aware that might be a problem, given your line of work and your own proclivities."

Irene pondered that. In a way, she felt it  _should_  bother her that he didn't seem to enjoy a bit of bondage. But then again, it  _should_  bother her that he was a man and that she was voluntarily restricting herself to having sex only with him. Sex with Sherlock was turning out to be unlike anything she'd experienced before, in its own sort of category. They  _shouldn't_  really be in this relationship at all, for countless reasons, yet here they were. So the fact that this revelation didn't bother her just seemed par for the course, really. But it also seemed like something that bore further exploration. Generally Irene tried to understand not only what people liked or disliked, but why. She wanted to know as much about the inner workings of Sherlock's fantastic brain as she could.

Finally, remembering that Sherlock was still staring at her nervously, Irene looked more directly at him, and smiled reassuringly. "No, that isn't a problem. I don't always take my work home with me, as it were. Of course I enjoy restraining my clients, but you're not a client." She saw a flash of deep appreciation in his eyes at that, at her acknowledgement that this relationship was unique, special. That was what he'd always desired from her, after all: to not be her client, nor even a personal plaything. Rather, to have something real between them. If her restraining him during sex was only going to reinforce his insecurities on that account, then she had as little desire for it as he did. She wanted to ask more, but could tell this was going to get into serious territory and decided she needed a bit of a deep breath for that. So she sat up fully, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. "This is something we ought to talk about. And we ought to do it with some more champagne," she declared.

Sherlock pushed himself up into a seated position, his arms shaking slightly, clearly still feeling the after effects of their prolonged session. He gave her a sceptical look, "You think you ought to get me drunk to talk about this sort of thing?"

"No," Irene said, circling around to his side of the bed, noting the way he turned his whole body to keep looking at her until she'd forced him to turn the complete opposite direction he'd previously been facing. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and not in the way most men couldn't. She wagered he'd have paid her just as much attention had she been clothed. She smiled down at him and gripped him by the shoulder. "I thought we should  _both_ have a few drinks and talk about whatever we like. Including this."

Sherlock exhaled in contemplation. "I have to be back at the church at nine," he pointed out, even as Irene grabbed his other shoulder and turned him towards her, pivoting his feet off the bed and onto the floor. Sherlock's hands wandered seemingly naturally up to her hips. "Best not to show up drunk."

"I said a  _few_  drinks," she pointed out. "In any case, it's only three thirty. You'll have plenty of time to sober up by nine. I'll even get you a glass," she said, as enticingly as possible.

"All right," Sherlock agreed, though still slightly reluctant. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her stomach.

Irene couldn't help but notice his seeming need for constant contact with her. It was so much the opposite of how he was, physically, with everyone else. He was far from touchy feely. He often wore gloves, separating himself even for a handshake. But certainly not with her. She added these observations to her growing understanding of what he liked from her. It was her job to pick up on these things, but regardless, sometimes things actually had to be  _discussed_. She wasn't about to let him off the hook on the subject they'd been talking about. Leaning forward, Irene placed a kiss on his forehead, then pulled away from him.

"Just a moment, then," she said, then headed back towards the living room. As she grabbed the glasses from the table, she heard a cell phone ring coming from the bedroom, playing a Bach piece as the ring tone. That made her smile, as it was very Sherlock. Irene strode back into the room, confident and comfortable in her battle dress, to find Sherlock had come across the room to find where his mobile lay in his discarded heap of clothing. It was still ringing and he was glancing at the number. "Do you need to take that?" she asked.

Sherlock frowned a little, then turned the phone to silent mode before setting it down on the dresser. Then he looked back at her and shook his head. "Just the church calling. Most likely Father Giordano is getting nervous about the meeting tonight and wants reassurances. Well, he can reassure himself," Sherlock said.

Irene's brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I know the work is important. I don't mind you calling him back."

"The work  _is_  important; this is not the work. It's simple hand-holding. Normally the kind of thing John takes care of. Clients are often insufferably anxious," Sherlock clarified, then handed Irene the champagne bottle to firmly redirect the conversation.

She took the bottle reluctantly and slowly began pouring them each a glass as she considered his point. Yes, he was probably right. From what she knew of her own clients and human nature in general, it made perfect sense that the priest would be overly worried and in need of reassurance. And in the back of her mind, in a place she didn't quite want to acknowledge, Irene also knew that if Sherlock called the priest back there was a chance, however small, that he'd wind up actually having to leave to deal with him. And she was wholeheartedly in silent agreement with Sherlock in not wanting that. "Fair enough," she conceded as she set the bottle back down.

To her surprise, Sherlock had grabbed his boxers off the floor and was beginning to slip them back on. Irene made a tutting noise, causing him to pause and look over at her. "No hiding," she admonished gently. Sherlock contemplated that a moment, then let the garment drop and crawled back onto the bed, taking a seat against the headboard. He did get under the sheets, though now that they were both covered in a sheen of sweat and no longer exerting themselves, she admitted it felt a bit chilly in here. Irene turned to the dresser where the champagne bottle was and poured them each a glass.

"It's really not all that interesting," Sherlock cautioned as Irene handed him his glass and circled around to crawl in beside him gracefully, without spilling a drop. He seemed marginally more relaxed than before. She wagered the massive dose of adrenaline and oxytocin in his bloodstream, combined with the alcohol already there, was really kicking in.

Irene pulled the sheet only up to her hips as she looked at him. "But it's specific," she pointed out, "It didn't alarm you merely because of your desire to maintain control of yourself." That much she had gathered. After all, she'd been able to make him lose control a number of times, and he'd wound up enjoying it once he gave in. This had been different. Irene took a sip of her drink, eyeing him carefully, attempting not to be pushy.

"Somewhat," Sherlock said, gazing down at his champagne. Then he took a large gulp of it, adding Irene knew to the two and a half glasses he'd already had about an hour earlier. He must be feeling  _some_  effect from the alcohol, because he waved his glass haphazardly as he said rather casually, "Well, I've had my share of being restrained against my will, often when I was also physically and mentally out of my own control. Not very pleasant memories, you see," he said with a shrug.

She could tell it had taken a lot for him to even say that much. He certainly wasn't one to talk about his past. But this did make sense. Some things were beginning to fall in place for her, in the way they often did when she was sizing up someone's sexual likes and dislikes and how that related to their overall being. Irene hummed thoughtfully as she took another sip, then ventured, "You've been arrested before, whilst high?"

Sherlock nodded as he took another sip of his drink. His cheeks were growing a little red already from the additional alcohol, up to about three glasses in an hour for him at this stage. Irene wondered at how much it might help him relax. "Constables don't tend to be very gentle when confronted with hostile, out of control junkies," he noted, looking straight ahead and clearly caught in some specific memories. Then he blinked and looked at Irene, "Not that I blame them. I wouldn't have wanted to deal with me, either. Still," he said, looking away from her again, "when the cocaine is contaminated with stimulants, amphetamines, it makes one particularly jumpy, sometimes paranoid. I had a particularly bad trip once that caused an unfortunate run in with some constables at a crime scene."

She didn't remind him that she'd seen him on amphetamine-laced cocaine and knew very well how unsettled it made him. "Were you trying to offer your opinions on solutions for said crime?" Irene ventured with a slight amount of humour in her voice, beginning to get a clearer picture of this.

Sherlock looked back at her now and scowled a little at the memory, "Well they were idiots. Completely mishandling the scene and missing several obvious clues." Irene couldn't help smiling around her glass as she took another drink. She was sure that he was right about the constables, but his particular brand of condescension was a rather blanket sentiment he held about the world at large. Sherlock spun his glass around by the stem a few moments, then downed the rest of it and continued, "I kept demanding to speak to their sergeant, they told me to bugger off. But I was feeling a certain kind of overconfidence that cocaine tends to bring on. Eventually I climbed up a fire escape to circumvent their perimeter and get down into the crime scene to speak with their sergeant myself. Of course, by that time I was completely out of control. The drugs were elevating my heart rate, the speed of my thinking, my awareness of my physical surroundings... I was hyper-aware of everything. The breeze in my hair sounded like a hurricane, brushing against something felt like being slammed into a brick wall. My mind was, for lack of a better term, short circuiting. It's... something that can happen if I get overstimulated. And I most certainly was. The drugs made it infinitely worse."

Irene noticed him squeezing his glass tightly, and could tell he was grappling now with controlling his sensory recall of the memory. She'd always seen that ability of his as a gift, but supposed she hadn't quite thought about its ability to bring to mind negative memories as well as more neutral things like the details of a crime scene. She reached out and put a hand on his, stopping the nervous spinning of the glass in his hands. He froze and looked at her, seeming to read the concern in her expression. "Should I get you another glass?" she asked. The depressant qualities of the alcohol seemed even more potentially useful at this stage. Sherlock nodded, then blinked rapidly and shook his head a little. As Irene took their glasses back to the dresser for a refill, she could hear Sherlock taking slow, deep breaths. She hoped his three glasses of champagne would be kicking in as well.

Sherlock waited until she crawled back into bed and handed him his glass before he continued, now in a little more detached tone. "I rambled off my thoughts to their detective sergeant in a manner that must have seemed more threatening than helpful. Dropping in from the fire escape most likely didn't alleviate that impression."

"No, I imagine not," Irene commented. Sherlock was being very straightforward about all this, which is what she would have expected. But she'd actually seen him high and out of control, and could picture very well the sort of scenario he was describing. She thought back to the IDF soldiers he'd nearly got into a fight with in Tel Aviv and shuddered at the memory of how dangerous and difficult to control Sherlock could be when high. A part of her didn't think she wanted to hear the rest of this story, but she knew he was just getting to the bit that had actually had a lasting impact. And she was starting to feel a little relaxed from the champagne herself, so she nodded for him to continue.

Sherlock's manner was becoming increasingly loose, his tone more nonchalant and unemotional as he said, "The two PCs handcuffed me and dragged me out of the scene, apologizing to their boss as they went." He paused, grimaced wryly. "Of course, they weren't so polite once they were out of their sergeant's sight. Needless to say I wound up with a few cracked ribs and a rather blackened eye, from being pinned to the ground with my arms behind my back.  _Then_  I had a panic attack and was hyperventilating and they wouldn't let me up, which led to passing out. I understand that people pay you a good deal of money for that sort of thing. But personally it was not a pleasant experience." He downed the remainder of his fourth glass of champagne in the last hour and a half. The effects of which were definitely showing in his manner at this point.

Then, to her surprise, he got up and headed back to the dresser and poured another glass from the bottle. The whisper of worry flitted through Irene's mind as she watched Sherlock amble back over, bringing the bottle with him and setting it on the bedside table as he sipped again from his glass. "Perhaps you should slow down," she suggested with a slight arch of her eyebrows.

Sherlock looked at her reproachfully, his disapproving scowl exaggerated by his now rather tipsy state. "You asked me a very personal question, Irene," he pointed out, aiming an accusatory finger at her. "Or do you think I'm in the habit of telling boring stories about my life experiences when sober? Believe me, my psychiatrist wishes it were so. Going on  _endlessly_  about how difficult it is to help me when I don't 'open up', as he says." Sherlock scoffed and took another sip of his drink. "And  _you_  suggested the champagne. I think it was a good idea."

Irene supposed he had a point. Still, the whole notion of Sherlock using any chemical to affect his brain functions to this degree made her slightly uncomfortable. "I didn't say you ought to drink it this quickly," she countered, taking a small sip from her own glass as she tried to formulate her thoughts into words. A bit more quietly, she added, "I have my own bad memories, you know."

That was pointed enough to still even an inebriated Sherlock. He looked at her intently, pursing his lips in thought. She was sure he hadn't forgotten their conversation about the cigarettes earlier. And while, yes, alcohol did the exact opposite as cocaine, she  _had_  once had to deal with him being both high and drunk at the same time, in the very incident with the IDF soldiers she's so recently recalled. She agreed with him that there was no reason he couldn't drink a bit to loosen up. But she hadn't anticipated him so deliberately pounding down three glasses in a row to intentionally alter his mental status. Irene was starkly reminded that he had a very large problem with moderation. As much as she didn't wish to unnecessarily nag him and spoil the mood, she was sure the worry was quite evident in her expression. Sherlock seemed to register it finally.

He turned around and set his glass on the bedside table with a slightly exaggerated movement. Then he turned back to her, took one of her hands in his and drew it up to his lips, placing an apologetic kiss on her knuckles. It was a gesture she was sure he wouldn't have made had he been entirely sober, yet one the meaning of which she appreciated nonetheless. With a chagrined tint to his tone, he said, "You can observe how easily I am carried away by certain sensory memories."

"I understand," she said, moving the hand he'd kissed up to brush aside some of his sweat-dried hair. Then she set her own champagne glass aside and shifted closer to him. "The constables, did they take you to the hospital after you passed out on them?"

"No. I think they must have simply been glad I'd stopped struggling. When I came to, I was coming down from my high and altogether a bit of a mess," Sherlock said ruefully. Irene knew just what he meant, unfortunately. She'd seen him become such a mess, go practically catatonic, sleep for nearly a whole day, even cry in the wake of his cocaine crash. When combined with the sort of panic attack, not to mention pain he must have been experiencing from the cracked ribs, Irene could easily understand why this experience had had such a lasting effect on him.

"But," he said, his voice ticking up positively, "that turned out to be a somewhat fortunate state to be in. Because when their sergeant showed up, he took one look at me in the pathetic state I was in, still lying on the ground as they waited for a squad car to free up to take me into booking, and told them both they were suspended."

Irene's eyebrows shot up. "Just like that?"

"Oh I'm sure there was the usual mountain of paperwork and official proceedings, but for the moment all I cared about was seeing those idiots humiliated by their superior. A small semblance of justice after the state they'd put me in," he said. To her surprise, he grinned. "As it turns out, they did me a favour. Had I been my more usual self instead of an injured, vulnerable-seeming young man upon that first meeting, I doubt DS Lestrade would have kept in touch."

_Ah,_  Irene thought. That did make sense. She'd never met Inspector Lestrade, but she certainly had done her homework before meeting Sherlock for the first time. She knew the Detective Inspector was the only person at the Yard who regularly engaged Sherlock's services and seemed willing to look past his... well, entire personality, really. As much as she loved it, she knew he must be a real pain in the arse for law enforcement. "First impressions can weigh heavily on a person's mind," she acknowledged. "I take it whatever helpful hint you'd rambled off at his crime scene wound up being accurate. I'm sure he was intrigued."

Sherlock nodded, seeming pleased that she'd put that much together. "Yes. He came by the hospital the next day, ostensibly to see how I was doing and apologize again for his men. But I could tell he was dying to know how I'd come up with the conclusions I had. I won't say he was tolerant of my addiction, precisely. He nagged me about it for quite a long time. Still does if he thinks I'm in 'danger'," he said the last bit with a roll of his eyes.

"But that's nice," Irene countered.

Sherlock gave her a deep, exaggerated look of questioning. "Is it? Now you're sounding like Mycroft, wanting me to be flattered by still being treated like a juvenile delinquent," he spat, though without much real vitriol. Irene wondered at his speech still being entirely precise in spite of the fact that his body language indicated he was headed in the direction of a bit drunk. For instance, he now closed his eyes and let out a long sigh before looking back at her insistently. "So there you have it. This was only one of several such incidents, but was certainly the most noteworthy. I've had rather uncontrollable outburts that resulted in my being restrained dating back to my childhood. And almost always, it was counterproductive. Particularly once drugs were involved. At any rate, when you restrained me yesterday while also..." he paused, blinking a few times as he searched for a good word, " _overstimulating_  my body... well, it isn't so much that it makes me  _think_  about such unpleasant experiences as it is my nervous system and brain automatically kicking into a hypersensitive state of fight or flight. And flight usually wins."

"I understand," Irene said with a nod. She had no desire to call forth those sorts of things. "Thank you. That's the kind of thing I need to know," she said. She paused, wanting very much to ask another question that had cropped up as he'd described this history. It was something she'd wondered about vaguely, and his description of his comment about childhood tantrums brought it up again. But she wanted to be careful not to offend him, so she asked, delicately, "You said this hypersensitivity, this being overloaded with sensory experiences, goes back to childhood? You were restrained during your meltdowns, by... your parents? Aides?"

Through his inebriated, relaxed aura, Irene could sense something in Sherlock becoming immediately sharply alert. He stared at her a moment, then shifted, leaning heavily back against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to his stomach and staring up at the ceiling a moment. He sighed, his eyes falling shut a moment, then he looked over at her and said plainly, "You want to know if I have Aspergers."

Irene wasn't entirely surprised that he had put that one together. Alcohol or not, he was still Sherlock. And she was always eager to get a glimpse into his mind, to try to understand how it worked. This line of inquiry was nothing more than that, not an attempt to put a label or stigma on him. But she was curious, so she nodded, "How'd you know?"

"The term 'meltdown', for one thing. The Aspergers term for an uncontrollable state of sensory overload, panic, and sometimes violent outbursts. And you asked if I was calmed by 'aides', indicating that I may have been at a facility with personnel specifically trained to handle such a situation. I presume your initial research, as well as that which Moriarty provided on me, noted the schools I'd attended. Including the one for boys with behavioral and emotional disabilities. The one I thankfully was able to leave for Eton when my father died and the experiment in attempting to force me into being normal ended." He said all this evenly, though not entirely relaxed. His tone was one of tension but not necessarily accusation. More like this was a topic he'd been dreading having crop up. But the alcohol was keeping him from being terribly upset, at least.

Irene was taken aback, and felt slightly guilty at having brought it up. Of course, he was right - she had learned about that bit of his past a long time ago, and had never actually brought it up to him. Partly because they both knew that what information she did know about his past she'd gotten from Moriarty. And neither of them liked to acknowledge her former connection with him.

She could see that this was far from the first time someone had asked Sherlock about this topic, though. Irene presumed it was something Mary was quite interested in, and John by extension. "I don't mean to present it as a negative. It simply seemed like a possibility. I don't think you'd disagree that your brain works differently than most people's. Which personally I love. But we don't have to talk about it, I simply thought it might be good to know whether that was something you'd been diagnosed with. It's the sort of thing one should be aware of in a partner."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Well, according to the new DSM V,  _no one_ can be diagnosed with it anymore. And it wasn't something that existed as a diagnoses when I was 13, either. They simply knew I had trouble with obsessive focus on topics, sensory overload, and social difficulties." He smiled in a self-deprecating manner most likely aided by the alcohol. "Obviously the solution to the latter is to put you with dozens of other boys who also have social and behavioral problems. And they were just as idiotic as everyone else, and even more awful towards me than normal children. That school was a nightmare," he said, though with genuflection rather than a sense of being haunted.

"You didn't quite answer my question," Irene pointed out lightly, turning to face him, resting her shoulder against the headboard.

"I've never been diagnosed officially," Sherlock replied, tapping his hands absently on the bedsheets. "Dr. Sayers has his suspicions, but I refuse to be submitted to an actual litmus test. What good would it do one way or another to have that label applied? The few people I interact with on a regular basis know my individual tendencies. You know how I am, how I react to and interact with people. You know me perhaps better than anyone." At that, he turned to lean his shoulder against the headboard as well, scooting a little closer to her. He looked her in the eye appraisingly, still tipsy and clearly taking longer than usual to articulate his thoughts. Finally, he raised a challenging eyebrow and said, "What I'd like to know is why, in all of your questions and explorations and attempts to glean information, do we never talk about  _you?_ "

Irene stared back at him evenly, slightly surprised yet inwardly contemplative. It was true, she had a very large tendency, drawn from her work, to turn the focus of a conversation onto the other person. Particularly when it involved a very private matter. Her clients weren't supposed to know any actual details about her, only whatever façade she put on for the present scenario. It was a habit more than a genuine attempt to hide anything from Sherlock. But she hadn't really even noticed that she'd been doing that. But what right did she have to hide in that way from Sherlock when she'd been demanding such honesty from him? After a few long moments of reflection, Irene replied, "All right, then. What do you want to know?"


	14. Chapter 14

The question seemed to catch Sherlock off-guard, even causing him to look slightly suspicious. Certainly Irene had not talked much about herself, but was well aware that they'd spent a lot of time on Sherlock. It was, in fact, something she'd thought about a lot in the ensuing months. She'd never presented him with an opportunity like this. There'd been such a barrier between them that year in Tel Aviv, and the only reason they'd wound up confronting  _his_  personal demons and history at all was because in his mental and physical state he'd been in no shape to hide them. In her line of work, she was used to disappearing, serving as an instrument of exploration for the other person. So it had become in her private life as well. But she'd realized in the months they'd been apart that if she wanted to have her own version of a meaningful relationship with Sherlock, she couldn't continue with that inequity. No matter how much more comfortable it made her.

"I'm perfectly serious," Irene said, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bed, settling in as casually as possible.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further, but only for a moment. Whether it was the alcohol, the hormones, or something else, he seemed to be getting a little more comfortable with her as the afternoon went on. When he evidently decided she wasn't trying to entrap him, his eyes drifted off as he slipped into his own thoughts for a moment. Now that Sherlock was presented with an open sandbox of possible questions, he took a good long while to actually voice one. Though perhaps that was something to do with the alcohol as well. Irene waited patiently until finally Sherlock seized upon something, his eyes lighting up and flicking back to meet hers again. "Aha," he said, scooting a little closer to her, a hand settling on the sheets covering her thigh. That desire for constant connection again. He had a lazy smile on his face as he asked, "Do you ever miss being an actress?"

Irene was silent, though she knew her eyebrows had lifted slightly in surprise. "So I'm not the only one who did my research," she noted. She shouldn't really have been surprised.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, hesitating with his mouth open in an uncharacteristic manner. He was not one to gape, nor to stutter with his words, yet now he seemed to have stopped himself mid-thought in a rather inelegant manner. He blinked, and she read in that a shadow of some kind moving across his mind. It was the most minute of expressions (even in his tipsy state), but Irene didn't miss it. Sherlock must have realised belatedly that he was gaping, and snapped his jaw shut. Then as quickly as the hesitation had arisen, he barrelled past it, his smile now turning a bit prideful. He absently caressed Irene's leg through the sheets as he said with a perhaps too-casual shrug, "I always do a thorough background check on my suspects. Never know what might be useful." Though it was odd to hear him speak of her that way, it did make sense. Perhaps that's what had been behind his pause.

"Well, go on," Irene replied with a shrug of her own. Now she leaned her elbow against the headboard and propped her hand against the side of her face. She was settling in, eyeing him carefully. "I'm curious as to precisely how much you know."

If ever there were a phrase tailor-made to excite Sherlock, that was it. He sat up straighter, clearly happy to oblige. Even if his speech was slightly slurred as he began declaratively, "Irene Adler, which is not, as many presume, a stage name or alias. Rather you went by a different name at school beginning at age 13. Presumably when your acting ambitions began and your mother urged your father to go along with it rather than push you to truly rebel."

That gave Irene a moment of pause, her forehead creasing minutely. He was spot-on, but there was something curious in the information. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, so shook off her discomfort as Sherlock continued, "You were born in West Berlin in 1981, your mother German and your father in the British army. An only child. Your family wound up moving all over the world for your father's work. You were educated in British international schools and did spend a good portion of your early teenage years residing in the UK. Which is mostly where you developed your accent, though it's partially cultivated and judging by the quality of your Italian, I'm sure you're quite capable of altering your speech as you please."

She couldn't help smiling at that. Many would have been worried at what Sherlock might reveal he knew about them, but Irene was not one to have embarrassments or regrets. Though she was certainly not very forthright with her  _feelings_  about things and preferred to keep as much to herself as possible, Irene had been at least somewhat prepared for this kind of conversation with Sherlock. She, after all, had been the one to come into this liaison in Florence knowing full well that she intended to confront him about the issue of forming a manner of relationship. He'd been predictably and adorably gobsmacked by it, to her delight. But for Irene it was a foregone conclusion. Really, could he have said no? Knowing the outcome, knowing how much of his soul he'd exposed to her, she'd come into this prepared to have her past mined eventually. So at the very least she didn't need five glasses of champagne to do so.

Irene winced internally at that.  _You shouldn't have let him drink so much,_ a very small inner voice whispered to her. There was no arguing with that. But that didn't mean she couldn't brush past it. She was quite practiced at that, though not proud of that fact. "Spot on so far," she said, leaning forward a bit, urging him to go on.

Sherlock seized upon that encouragement and shifted, folding his legs beneath him as he settled himself in. He became more animated as he went on. "You were studying acting at drama school in your early 20s, but finding it wasn't quite enough. You had a captive audience, something it had been difficult for you to find in your youth - moving frequently, parents busy with careers. Your theatre audience weren't yours to solely control. And that was something you sought. With a mind and capability like yours, being jerked around the world without any semblance of control over it had been extremely irritating to you. You - exquisitely beautiful and vastly clever - being forced to follow the whims of the army? And yet you did admire and absorb their sense of discipline. I'll wager it took you very little exposure to the bondage scene to discover your hidden talent for domination."

Now Irene was surprised to find herself actually enjoying this a bit, though normally she'd have been horrified to be dissected this way or to have anyone presume to know her. She didn't quite know why it wasn't bothering her now. Her mystery had always been a prominent part of her power and allure. Perhaps her comfort stemmed from being secure in the knowledge that Sherlock was obviously only more drawn to her as time went on, rather than less. And it was a good memory Sherlock had touched on. Irene smiled at it. "A friend took a few of us to a club for her birthday, just for a laugh. I'd thought being on stage gave you a captive audience. I found the idea of having one or two quite literally captive participants much more intriguing."

Sherlock stared at her, and Irene swore she could see a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was just the slightly glassy effect of the alcohol. But he certainly seemed bemused by her story. For a moment, Irene was struck with the memory of just how supposedly uninterested in her line of work Sherlock had been the first time they'd met. How he'd professed himself to be so above such desires. He'd scoffed at John's astonishment at her nudity. Yet she'd known even then that there were cracks: that little stammer he'd given when she'd declared brainy to be the new sexy; the fact that he'd stared at her closely enough to discern her measurements. Oh, he'd been more hooked than he knew. But  _she_  had known all along. And now, seeing the openly amused and fond look on his face as she casually mentioned her sexual work, Irene couldn't help but marvel at how far he'd come.

After staring a moment, Sherlock ventured, "Your friend had no idea what she'd unleashed."

"Not quite, though I think a few weeks later when I was practicing on her, she may have gotten the picture," Irene said with a sly smile. "Though 'unleashed' in this case is a very inaccurate choice of words."

To Irene's immense surprise, Sherlock let out a low, rumbling laugh. An even more pronounced display of amusement than the little chuckle she'd heard from him earlier in the day. No, this was bona fide laughter, which she'd never heard from Sherlock before. And he was  _smiling_  (as it turned out, a rather lovely smile). Irene was well aware that the five glasses of champagne he'd thrown back had something to do with his uncharacteristically jovial manner. But she liked to think that it had at least a little to do with her. He seemed relaxed beyond merely being tipsy. No, it was also that he seemed  _comfortable_  with her now. And God, every revelation like this renewed her desire for him.

Irene smiled and leaned in against him, turning onto her side as she sidled up next to Sherlock. She moved in so close it forced him to turn his head to continue looking at her. Just that little bit of control over him irrationally excited her. That his expression on his face was one of rapt attention thrilled her even further. She simply loved this dance they had become so adept at as soon as they'd met, really. She'd push his buttons, explore his desires - not merely the sexual ones, but the ones that drove that brilliant, all-consuming, deducing brain of his. And he'd turn that mind on her, deducing her feelings, where she'd been, what she'd been doing, evidently even her adolescence -

Irene blinked, her thrumming body stilling suddenly as she went a little cold with realisation. Obviously she'd been unable to hide this change, because Sherlock's interested gaze quickly turned to one of leeriness. "What is it?" he said, by way of formality. His question was evident; her coolness doubly so. Yet she didn't scoot back nor shy away. Instead Irene remained close to him as she stated in a tone that was cool but tinged with suspicion, "You didn't show your work." She sat up straighter even as he seemed to slink down into the sheets further. "Those were no deductions." What he enjoyed almost as much as solving something was telling you precisely  _how_  he'd solved it, what clever things he'd noticed and pulled out of his vast vaults of knowledge.

But he hadn't done that here, with the information about her past. No, he'd only given conclusions, not the solution.

Even nearing drunk, Sherlock was too sharp to miss her meaning. Nor could he convincingly pretend it was otherwise in his state. Instead, he closed his eyes momentarily. "Irene…" he began lowly. When she didn't jump in, he opened his eyes again, looking a little surprised. She met him with a challenging raised eyebrow rather than the interruption he'd clearly anticipated. No, she wasn't letting him out so easily. She pursed her lips together and waited on him to continue. Sherlock cleared his throat a little and said, "Yes, I had other sources of information beyond my own faculties."

Of course he had, Irene had realised. He must have. No only had he not mentioned how he'd figured out these aspects of her past, but thinking on the kinds of things he had stated, they were different than his usual observations. More personal. He'd talked about how she'd felt, the social and interpersonal reasons behind her actions. Not that he was never able to deduce those, but he had always been much better on the 'how' than the 'why', and really only required the former to solve most cases. There were exceptions, but those were always the ones Sherlock struggled with a bit more, as far as she knew. Granted, much of this wasn't first-hand knowledge, but merely what she'd learned from -

"Moriarty," she whispered, nearly hissed as if it were the basest vulgarity.

Now Sherlock was the one to finally break their contact, scooting away a little and clenching his jaw tightly, his eyes snapping across to some vacant spot on the wall to burn a hole into. "Not a name I'd ever hoped to hear in a situation such as this."

"Imagine yourself in a lot of situations such as this, do you?" Irene retorted out of reflex, though her tone was lacking its usual playful lilt. In truth she'd felt like they'd been plunged into a cold spring, the icy water slowing their limbs, their wits, their entire perception of reality. Suddenly she became aware of a ticking clock in the bathroom, the sound of vespas whizzing by outside on the cobblestone roads, her heart pounding in her throat. And Irene knew she shouldn't have driven down this path, no matter how curious she was nor how off-put by Sherlock having information on her from Moriarty's files. Sherlock was even more frozen than she, and Irene was keenly reminded of just how much things had changed in the years they'd known one another. Moriarty had begun as a game, for both of them - but hadn't ended that way. Far from it.

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if struggling to pull himself from the paralysing chill of the waters they'd thrown themselves into. He finally looked at her as he said, "His men had files. When I found yours - on one of the two government officials he owned in Prague I believe it was - I did consider burning it."

Irene shifted. "I don't suppose I could have expected you to stave off your curiosity."

"Particularly not after you were so instrumental in the creation of my own dossier," Sherlock pointed out, neither his voice nor eyes betraying any accusation.

But Irene felt it nonetheless. Even if it was coming only from herself, she could not escape the guilt she had over that gruesome chapter in her life. On the one hand, yes, her involvement with Moriarty had brought her to Sherlock. On the other, she'd only been intrigued in Sherlock at the outset because of the fascinating potential of torturing him, of dissecting him and showing that she could break down this hellenic hero of a man in a manner no one else had been able to. That she had become emotionally involved served to soften the reality of what she'd done after the fact, but in her heart she had come to realise how truly awful she had intended to be towards Sherlock.  _And how awful you still managed to be during his 'death'_ , a rueful part of her heart hissed at her angrily.

Irene was surprised to find herself swallowing back a lump. "Sherlock," she began thickly. Her tone must have surprised him, judging by the look of near-trepidation on his face. Clearly they were steering into the sort of territory he found uncomfortable. Not entirely sure of what she was doing, Irene put a hand on his. "I want you to know, whether or not you say you've already realised this or not… how sorry I am for… what I've put you through."

Sherlock seemed somehow more uncomfortable with this sincerity than he had with the mention of Moriarty. "We've been over it quite enough. When I was "dead", when I was … using," he grimaced at the word, and quickly finished, "I see no need to revisit it."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Irene said. She made a concerted effort to hold his gaze steady as she said, "For Moriarty. Bond Air. Using and manipulating you the way that I did."

That he didn't seem to be expecting. He opened his mouth once and no words came out, so he licked his lips and gave it another go. "I don't believe you knew just what kind of plans dear Jim had in mind for me," Sherlock drawled the name rather acidly. But his tone (still lilting from the champagne) remained mostly light. "Besides, the man he sent you to entrap no longer exists."

That hung in the air a long moment. Irene could sense that this was her opportunity to either turn the conversation to an even darker, more sombre exploration - or to do something else. And, as the files Moriarty had evidently created on her hinted, Irene had always been fond of 'something else'. So she quirked her lips and leaned in slightly as she replied with a sparkle, "No, as I remember, that was ' _the virgin'_." Irene hovered intentionally just over Sherlock now, leaning down with a challenging look in her eye.

Sherlock's hot breath, stinging with alcohol, escaped his mouth with a sigh. Irene breathed it in, close enough to taste. God, she wanted to close that gap, but felt the need still to draw him into her, to force his hand. Luckily, his restraint in this state was negligent, and Sherlock nearly lunged up to meet her lips with his. Irene's eyes fluttered closed as his hands went to the curves of her hips, and she bit at his bottom lip. The aggression of the kiss intensified as their heart rates both skyrocketed.

When Irene pulled back and placed a hand on his chest, she swore she heard a small whimper escape the back of Sherlock's throat. "So now it seems we've both shared, Mr. Holmes," she said playfully as she leaned over him further.

"Mmm," he hummed contentedly. " _Mr. Holmes_ ," he quoted with a small knowing quirk of his lips. "Clearly your invitation for sex. Though I have to admit I may be a bit out of sorts to do much at the moment, I'm afraid." He couldn't hide the glassy sheen of his eyes nor the now distinct smell of alcohol on his breath. Certainly he wasn't in a state to be very coordinated or in control.

But Irene didn't care about that. Instead, she swung a leg over his so she was now fully straddling him, and moved a hand slowly down to pull the sheet from his lap. He shivered a little at the cold air on his skin. She could also see the beginnings of his arousal, which was encouraging. At least he wasn't  _too_ drunk. "Don't worry," she purred. "You won't need to do anything. And I won't need to restrain you, but still get to be in control. Best of both worlds. How does that sound?"

"Fair," he replied, his eyes focusing on her in anticipation. Irene kept eye contact with Sherlock as she reached over to the bedside table and delicately lifted the champagne bottle. He quirked an eyebrow at her in question, and she responded with a wicked smile. Then she pushed him into a slightly more reclined position and slowly began pouring the remainder of the champagne down his chest. He jerked from the cold at first. The honey-coloured liquid ran down over his abdomen and towards his groin. Irene leaned in close to him, sensing his anticipation in every shallow breath.

"Oh dear," she drawled. "I've made a mess." With expert practice, she slid down Sherlock's lap while simultaneously dipping her head down to his abdomen. When her tongue drew a long path up the left side of his body, his chest vibrated with something like a combination of a chill and an aroused rumble. Irene repeated the motion on the other side of his stomach, and this time earned a small whine in response, which brought a positively wicked grin to her face. "It wasn't right for you to keep so much of this delicious champagne to yourself, Sherlock. Shame on you."

Even if he normally could have mustered an appropriately witty response, he had no such retort now. Instead, to her surprise, his inebriated state must have stripped him of any pretense as he growled out lustfully, "Oh, just do it, Irene."

She paused, quirking an eyebrow at her, "Just for that, I don't know if I will."

He eyed her a moment, then to her surprise his hands shot out quickly to her breasts. In one swift movement, he pinched and rolled both of her nipples between his nimble fingers, and used the grip to tug her closer to him with a wordless growl.

Now Irene couldn't help the full grin that swept across her face at the vulgar, primal behavior she'd elicited from him. "Well, then for that, I think I shall," she said breathily, meeting his hungry eyes. He released her, and Irene slid gently, slowly down his body, dragging her tongue all the way down until she tasted him and heard the most fantastic choked groan emanate from his throat.

* * *

He could not say he was precisely  _proud_  of enjoying this particular act. But then, Sherlock could not seem to say  _anything_  at the moment. His throat was constricted, much as the muscles of his arms, neck, and chest had flexed and tightened as if seizing. His hands twisted grotesquely in Irene's dark hair, and worse, she seemed to rather enjoy it. Sherlock would actually be embarrassed if he had any inhibitions remaining. But between the swimming, floating state of his mind from the champagne and the rushing, pounding sensation of all the blood fleeing the top half of his body, Sherlock didn't quite have the ability to do anything but writhe and succumb.

He shut his eyes tightly, a bit afraid of what further betrayal his body might have for him if he saw Irene as he had when she'd attempted this the day before. But God, even with his eyes closed, he couldn't be bothered to focus on something calming like breathing ( _boring_ ), instead consumed by the new sensations overtaking his body ( _heavenly_ ).

And so delayed was his thought process, so thunderous was the pulse in his neck that he didn't really notice or hear what caused Irene to pull away from him. Instead, Sherlock was simply left feeling cold and confused, and with the vague sense that words were being flung at him.

It took Irene literally slapping him upside the head to jolt Sherlock from the hazy, glorious state he'd sunken into. His eyes opened to see her lips moving and sounds coming out.  _Words_ , he thought. Yes, those were sometimes relevant. But right now they seemed the most hateful thing he'd ever experienced. Why had all those other things stopped for  _this?_

" _Sherlock,"_  Irene said in a tone that clearly indicated she was repeating herself. "I asked why it's ringing if you put it on silent."

He noted the urgency there, but blinked in confusion a moment. "Ringing," he said, his voice sounding hoarse and weak. "What's-"

"Oh God," she sighed. "You know, there are few times when your being a man truly gets in your own way, but this may be one of them."

That was unfair, he thought, as he ground out in annoyance, "Well you were the one fellating me, Woman." When the words left his mouth, Sherlock had enough presence of mind to register that they were perhaps Not Good, and prepared himself for another slap.

To his surprise, Irene remained oriented to the task (whatever it was). She spoke to him slowly and directly this time. "Why is your mobile ringing if you put it on silent? I can only assume that must mean some kind of-"

"Emergency," Sherlock sat up, finally coming a little more to his senses. He understood what Irene was saying now. He'd most certainly put his mobile phone on silent so as to avoid just such a ghastly interruption as this. However, John had long since grown weary of being ignored and had installed an application that allowed him to send an alert text that would ring Sherlock's mobile in case of an emergency, even if it were on silent. Sherlock blinked hard and nodded. "Yes, that would be John. I suppose I should-"

Irene had already rolled off of the bed and traversed the space to the dresser where his mobile lay, then returned before Sherlock could quite get out the rest of his sentence. "Seven missed calls from John, four from a local number," Irene said, an edge of reproach in her tone.

Sherlock was a bit surprised at her insistence. "And?

" _And_ ," Irene said pointedly, "the last thing we needed after the debacle with Mary was to raise anyone's suspicions further, least of all John's. Not to mention there's possibly the minor matter of a missing Renaissance genius to be attended to."

"Only an  _astronomer_ ," Sherlock scoffed, but Irene had already hit the button to answer the call and shoved the phone into his hands before the detective could properly protest. And before he even raised the device to his ear, Sherlock heard the very familiar, very cross voice of John Watson shouting, " _Sherlock, where the hell have you been?!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: My sincere apologies that this chapter took a few weeks. I meant to work on it both of the last two weeks and had work stuff one weekend then a medical emergency the next. All kinds of fun. I will also get to replying to your kind reviews, which were really the highlight of probably my month. So glad to be providing you all with some enjoyment, though the updates may come a bit more slowly than they used to.
> 
> And now we shall finally get Sherlock and Irene out of bed and into the real world, horrible thought it can be.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been far too long. Very sorry about that. I've been doing two jobs at work and we've just now hired someone to do one of those jobs, thankfully. So now I've got more time to write. Thank you so much for the reviews. They keep me going in a very stressful time. Enjoy the chapter.

 John gripped his mobile tightly, somehow more irritated now that Sherlock had finally picked up. All the nervous energy he’d been fighting against melted away, taking his professionalism with it as he shouted at Sherlock incredulously, “Sherlock, where the hell have you been?!” The sound echoed around the grand marble walls of Santa Croce, causing John to wince immediately, and drawing more than one look from the tourists visiting the famous site. John turned away from Father Giordano to face a wall as he hissed more quietly into his phone, “And don’t tell me you’ve been at a lecture on wood grains. I checked with the university -- that ended an hour ago and no one remembers seeing you there.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by Sherlock attempting nonchalance as he replied, “ _It’s over? Must have lost track of time.”_

Already, he had been wary of Sherlock’s strange behaviour in the last few days. Mary had insisted that it had nothing to do with drugs, but when both the church and John had tried desperately to contact Sherlock for almost an hour to no avail, he couldn't help growing more suspicious. Now as he heard the forced casual nature of Sherlock’s tone, it made him even more angry. Obviously his friend was withholding things on purpose, a practice which rarely led to positive outcomes for John. “Doing what exactly?” John demanded through gritted teeth.

“Working on several- look, obviously you’ve got something important to tell me, or at least I hope you have since you used the emergency text alert. Stop wasting precious time and tell me what you called about.” 

Sherlock’s tone was peevish, and that might have been what most people noticed. In fact, John was fairly certain the detective _wanted_ him to get so annoyed he ignored what else was evident in Sherlock’s speech: slurring. A bit of a halting stammer. But John couldn’t fail to notice it. Not after he’d been on high alert for such warning signs for the past 6 months. His blood turned cold as he momentarily forgot what he had called Sherlock so urgently about. Surely it couldn’t have been more dire than what he now heavily suspected was going on with the detective himself. _I should never have let him come here. He wasn’t ready to be away from home yet. It’s an unstable environment, of course he went back to the drugs,_ John castigated himself.

Still, he had to remain as calm as possible. The fact was, they _did_ have a rather important case to get through, and besides, letting Sherlock know John was on to him might only cause him to bolt, and that would be bad on all accounts. Instead, John took a deep breath and struggled to push down the growing sickening feeling in his stomach. He tried to remain calm and focused as he said, “You know that 9pm meeting time we gave Luca Folino and his accomplice? Well, they decided to turn in early, it seems. They dropped Galileo’s body off in a box on the steps of the church about an hour ago. It was found by some now thoroughly traumatized children.”

“ _Really?”_ Sherlock asked, sound sceptical. “ _What does it look like?”_

John blinked. “The body? It’s a skeleton, Sherlock. It looks like an old skeleton, left in a wooden box with a note reading, ‘Just wanted him to see the stars again. No harm done.’” John glanced over to see the nervous Father Giordano standing over said wooden box, looking between it and John in apprehension. The priest had been fairly frantic when he’d finally reached John, who’d been in the middle of his massage with Mary at the time. 

“ _Hmmm,”_ Sherlock hummed, then there was a sound of him covering the mouthpiece with his hand, and John could have sworn he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock saying something out loud. A moment later, the detective returned, tone still too flippant, too loose, “ _How many fingers does he have?”_

John blinked, uncertain if Sherlock’s clearly altered state were getting the better of him. “What?"

“ _This alleged Galileo, John. Look at his fingers. Count them._  

With an annoyed sigh, John headed back over to where Father Giordano stood over the very old corpse. A quick look revealed the usual number of fingers. “Ten, amazingly enough,” John replied impatiently.

Sherlock chuckled in the self-satisfied manner he sometimes did. “ _No,”_ he stated confidently. 

John shifted his weight in annoyance, staring off at a wall in the incredulous way he would have looked at Sherlock were he there. “No?” He asked sharply. Of course Sherlock, even a chemically altered Sherlock, would not simply offer an explanation. He wanted John to ask, to admit his lack of understanding, to cow to Sherlock’s superior intellect. This was something John was quite used to by now and mostly brushed off, but given his current anxieties, he had no patience with this. “And don’t put me through a whole show, just tell me what you’re getting at.”

His tone must have been stern enough to get through whatever altered state Sherlock was in, because the detective sighed in resignation before replying, “ _Galileo’s body should be missing two fingers and a thumb. Cut off as tokens at his burial and placed in a museum here recently. That body isn’t Galileo's.”_ Of course, John thought. Leave it to Sherlock to know almost nothing about this extremely well-known astronomer’s life but to somehow know about his amputated body parts. 

“All right, so they dug up some other old corpse and dropped it off. I assume to stall us?” John wagered.

“ _Precisely,”_ Sherlock replied. “ _Tell the Father not to bother with further testing. That’s likely what the so-called kidnappers are hoping for. More time to escape._  

John couldn’t keep the angry edge out of his tone as he hissed back, “Well then, it’s a good job you haven’t given them even more time to leg it out of here by not answering your bloody phone.” 

There was a pause on the other end, and John thought he heard the sound of Sherlock swallowing. Hopefully, John thought, in chagrin. In the current situation, the least the man could do was be a little ashamed of himself. Not one of Sherlock’s strong suits, no, but deep down he had to know that he was risking his reputation on a very high-profile case for the sake of -- what? Getting high in some anonymous location? The thought made John sick, and not because of the case. He found himself more overcome with deep worry for his friend than anger now. 

Finally, Sherlock replied, “ _I… apologise._ ” _That_ only served to make John more suspicious. Since when did Sherlock offer apologies that quickly? Only, in John’s experience, when he wanted to throw John off and distract him from a larger issue. Well he wasn’t having it this time. His fingers curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm as he tried hard not to lose control of himself. _Goddammit Sherlock. Goddammit._ The detective continued in a clearly forced ‘sober’ tone, “ _I can’t really explain, but you have to get Detective Rinaldi to release that footage to you. It’s more important now than ever. Take the priest if you have to. We have to find the ambulance they used. Time is of the essence_.” 

“That’s very convenient for you to say now,” John retorted, but his tone lacked vitriol now. He was far too concerned with Sherlock’s well-being, far too eager to do whatever he could to get his friend back with him so he could … what, restrain him? Call in his brother? _If that’s what it takes_ , John resolved. So rather than fight Sherlock’s impudent request, John did his very best to remain calm and placating as he said, “All right. I’ll get it. I imagine Rinaldi might be more easily persuaded by myself and a representative of the Archdiocese than he was by you.”

“ _I should think so,_ ” Sherlock said in an overly chipper tone that further unnerved John.

 “But I’ll need you to look through the footage,” John cautioned, “So you’ll meet me back at the hotel, right mate?” He winced a little, hoping he didn’t sound too suddenly accommodating, lest he alert Sherlock that he was on to him.

 Fortunately, Sherlock had never been particularly great at deciphering the nuances of phone conversations. Without physical cues to go off of, he had some trouble discerning people’s tone and ulterior motives, John had found. And whatever drugs he’d taken, he was even less perceptive now judging by his jovial response. “ _Of course! Just give me a minute to… I’m sure I’ll be there by the time you return and we can start looking through the footage ourselves. We’ll find them. It’s only a minor setback. Not to worry, John_.”

 John’s stomach twisted, and he felt the burn of bile rising in his throat at the rambling, rapid-fire way Sherlock was speaking. The nails of his fist now drew small specks of blood, and John’s eyes shut tightly as he fought against the horrible feeling that was now washing over him. “Right,” he just managed to croak out, “Who’s worried?”

* * *

 

 Mary was sat on the couch attempting to focus on editing her thesis, trying to ignore all the other things she knew may be going on with her fiancé and her flatmate when John burst into the hotel suite, slamming the door behind him. He exuded such high levels of stress that Mary was momentarily worried he was having some sort of panic attack. Which was precisely the sort of thing she’d been concerned about when he’d left her at the masseuse to head to Santa Croce. He was going to clean up Sherlock’s mess, he’d said. It wasn’t unusual for the detective to disappear without warning, but John insisted he’d never seen Sherlock ignore a case like this. 

Of course, Mary had a very good idea of where Sherlock was and why he wasn’t bothering to answer his phone. A much better idea than she desired, really. She’d just been getting relaxed at her spa day with John, had just begun to let go of her anxiety over the disturbing things she’d learned about Sherlock when it all came crashing back down on her. And now on John as well, even if he didn't know what was really going on.

John didn’t even look at her, didn’t acknowledge her presence. Instead he was making a bee-line for Sherlock’s bedroom, his face red with what seemed to be a combination of anger and anxiety. “John?” Mary said with concern, following him. She stood in the doorway as she watched him frantically tossing Sherlock’s room -- ripping suits from the closet, turning out their pockets, throwing Sherlock's suitcase on the bed and beginning to unzip every pouch. All the while, John was breathing heavily, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Mary could tell this was more of a stress reaction for John than because of physical exertion.

“John, where’s Sherlock?” she asked, doing her best to remain neutral. Just what had he found out about Sherlock’s extracurricular activities that had led him to toss his friend's room? Mary knew she had to play her cards close to the vest, but frankly John’s crazed demeanour had taken her aback.

John’s response was more a scoff than an actual answer. He remained focused on whatever it was he was looking for. And Mary was getting a sinking feeling she knew what that was. John had already hinted earlier at his concerns that Sherlock might slide back into drug use in this new, unstable environment. Mary couldn't simply stand back and watch her fiancé implode this way. She stepped close to him and put a hand on his arm, staying him as he was beginning to attempt ripping the lining out of Sherlock's suitcase. "John, tell me what's going on," she said quietly but insistently, in a tone that she reserved for the most serious of situations.

That caused John to stop a moment, to calm down marginally. He froze, breathing heavily and still looking down at the suitcase. "What's going on," he began lowly, "is that Sherlock has relapsed." 

He let that hang in the air, and Mary felt her stomach twisting horribly, felt a burning anxious feeling beginning in her chest. She'd tried to steer John away from this line of thinking before, but obviously something else had happened to kick his suspicion into overdrive. But how could she correct him without betraying Sherlock's confidence? "Darling, can we sit down and talk about this. Tell me exactly what happened. You're worrying me." 

Finally, John looked at her. When she saw the lost look in his eyes, Mary instinctively reached out for his hand and squeezed it. John gave her a brief grateful expression, then sank onto the edge of the bed. Mary took a seat beside him as he explained, "I finally got Sherlock to answer his mobile. He sounded..." John struggled, clearly having trouble talking about this. Swallowing, he said, "Well, he certainly didn't sound sober. He was slurring his words, seemed distracted, overly chipper. Never mind just the fact of him ignoring the case like this. I've never seen him behave this way."

Mary rubbed his shoulder with one hand and held his hand with the other. None of this was helping her to tamp down her own guilty conscience, though. Of course she knew precisely why Sherlock was behaving this way, the source of his apparent and unusual upbeat mood. The only feeble response she had was, "You know how serious a thing this is to accuse him of. Have you actually asked him about it?" 

John sighed raggedly. "Do you remember what happened the last time he was using? He almost died, Mary." Of course she remembered. She recalled how devastated John had been to find out that Sherlock had been injecting cocaine nearly the entire time he'd been off dismantling Moriarty's network. But that paled in comparison to Sherlock overdosing and going into cardiac arrest right in front of John, of the doctor having to perform CPR and use emergency defibrillators to bring his best friend back from the brink of death. Mary had been there, and in spite of her years as a therapist, didn't think she'd ever seen someone in more distress than John had been. But he was edging that direction again now.

"Of course I remember," Mary replied, at a loss for what else to say. She didn't know how she could possibly convince John given the state he was in, given the understandable conclusions he'd reached about why Sherlock was being so cagey, where he'd been all day, why he'd sounded off to his friend. Mary found herself growing angry at Sherlock for having put her in this impossible situation. If he wanted her to keep his secret, he could have at least put a little effort into it himself. Did he have to behave so recklessly?

As Mary grasped pathetically for some way to resolve the scenario, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. "I've got to call Dr. Sayers. Maybe Mycroft. I don't know what it will take to get Sherlock back home, back into rehab..." He closed his eyes tightly, and the pain etched in every line of his face broke Mary's heart. "How could I let this happen again?" John asked, barely above a whisper. 

That was more than Mary could take. She was not going to sit here and watch John torture himself over something that wasn't actually happening. She had to tell him at least some measure of the truth. She'd sworn to Sherlock she wouldn't reveal what she'd learned, but right now the alternative would be far worse for him (and for his friendship with John). Mary closed her eyes a moment, took a beat, then said, "It's not drugs."

She opened her eyes to see John rubbing his brow. "I wish I could believe that, but it won't do Sherlock any good for us to be in denial-"

 " _John_ ," she said, this time more commandingly as she pivoted on the bed to face him. He gave her a surprised look, knowing that rare tone of voice. "I'm telling you, Sherlock's not doing drugs. That's not what's distracting him." John was staring at her intently now, with confusion but also, she detected, some small measure of hopefulness, desperate to hear her out. She couldn't tell him the whole truth. That would be betraying Sherlock's confidence too deeply, and Mary couldn't forget how distressed _he_ had been when she'd walked in on him and his... companion. Feeling as though she were walking a tightrope, Mary drew a deep breath before she said evenly, "It's a woman."

* * *

John wasn't sure he'd ever had such a torrent of horrid emotions, thoughts, and fears halted in such an abrupt and unexpected manner. At first, he just felt like he had heard Mary wrong. But as soon as he realised there was literally no other word in the English language he could have mistaken that for, his brain nearly short-circuited on it --- woman? Was Mary really suggesting that all of Sherlock's grossly irresponsible behaviour was on account of some _woman_?

He closed his eyes and let go of Mary's hand, rubbing his forehead in confusion before replying, "What are you talking about? What do you mean he's distracted by a woman? In what way?" Of course he knew what she was insinuating, but now he'd gone from feeling overwhelmingly distressed to unbearably confused in a short amount of time. He needed to let the facts bring him back to earth. 

"In the way men are usually distracted by women," Mary said, suggestion lacing her tone.

"Why would you say that?" John asked. It occurred to him that perhaps this was just some suggestion Mary had thrown out of the blue to relieve his distress about the drugs. Except that he knew the tone she'd used, knew it was one of her very serious therapist tones of voice that were reserved for emphasizing absolute truths. But this was the most outrageous thing she could have insinuated. Much more unbelievable than the notion that Sherlock had slipped back into drug use in spite of his intense desire for sobriety. And yet John couldn't disbelieve his future wife. She had to have some reason for thinking this so adamantly...

John's head was starting to throb with the effort to make sense of what Mary was telling him. He took a calming breath before saying, "I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just having a very hard time understanding exactly what you're saying. How can you be sure-"

"Because I walked in on them," Mary interrupted bluntly. " _Together_."

John felt as if the earth's atmosphere had suddenly become unbreathable. As if this planet he'd lived on his whole life were suddenly an alien world. Without air, his head spun, his vision going wobbly. He had enough presence of mind to be glad he was already sitting down, because John was certain otherwise he'd have collapsed to the ground. When he did finally remember how to breathe, he found himself at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open.

 Mary must have taken his reaction for continued doubt, because she (horrifyingly) felt the need to clarify, "They were shagging."

 John found himself involuntarily leaping up from Sherlock's bed, shaking off a horribly uncomfortable chill. "Yeah, _I got that._ I just --" John stared at Mary as he grasped for words. All he could think to say at first was, "What, in here?" He gestured around the room, and now Mary popped up from the bed as well.

"No, not _here_ ," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Do you think I'm in the habit of walking into Sherlock's bedroom? Certainly not after the first week in Baker Street." 

"Right. When I had to get him to agree the only place he could wander around with no pants on was in his room," John recalled. "But you definitely saw Sherlock and this woman...?" He met Mary's eye. If he doubted his fiancée’s veracity at all, the sickened look on her face did away with that. No, this had really happened.

And then, without knowing he was going to, John burst out laughing. As he'd earlier rubbed his head in indescribable despair, he now did so with mixed parts indescribable relief and utter shock. Mary, however, was looking at him warily, as if he'd gone a bit mad. Reading her expression, John quelled his laughter and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sure it wasn't funny for you, but this is just so..."

Mary nodded and finally gave a crooked smile. "Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are."

"Oh my God, I can only imagine," John said as he headed out of Sherlock's room and back towards the living room couch. He sat down on it heavily, though now it was as if a weight were rolling off of him rather than landing squarely on his shoulders. Mary sat down beside him, seeming a little less relieved than he was about all this. Of course, she had known all along it wasn't cocaine again. He supposed she must have rather different images of Sherlock to worry about.

John froze a moment, then asked carefully, "Wait, if they weren't in Sherlock's room, where did you manage to walk in on them...?" He blanched. "It wasn't on this was it?" he asked, indicating the couch he was now very aware they were both sat on. 

Mary regarded him a moment, as if uncertain she should say any more. But perhaps it was the sheer insanity of the situation and the need to talk through it with someone else, but she gave in. She grimaced a moment before she said with woeful humour, "Kitchen table." 

John's eyebrows shot up."Bloody hell, we've never even done that," he muttered, and couldn't help sounding impressed. Mary slapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly. 

"Obviously I'm relieved," John added. "It explains Sherlock's strange behaviour. Certainly explains why he seemed so chipper. Though the slurring..." He frowned. "I suppose he- _they_ have probably been drinking." It felt a strange thing to say, an even stranger thing to imagine. Sherlock spending an afternoon in Florence having sex with some woman and getting plastered. Everything about it felt incredibly wrong, and yet it strangely fit the facts. John shook his head. "I'm not necessarily happy about him getting drunk, given his other vices. But it's better than the alternative. Still, I can't believe all this time I've been trying to work the case, _he's_ been off doing that. I know it's the sort of thing one normally expects from an adult human..." 

"Whatever else he is," Mary noted, "he is that. We have to trust him... to some degree." She seemed unsettled and not at all certain of what she was saying. More like she was trying to convince herself as well as John.

Well, he certainly understood her hesitation. With a bit of a smile, John said, "Frankly, I'm not entirely sure we _can_ trust Sherlock to be an adult human, but it's better than what I thought was going on." 

To his surprise, that bit of humour only made Mary more uneasy. Hesitantly, she said, "Trust is a complicated thing..."

John could sense the guilt pouring off his fiancée, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before saying, "I'm guessing you weren't supposed to say anything judging by how long you held out, but honestly, I don't think I could have gone on much longer thinking he was ... you know." 

"I know," Mary acknowledged. With a twist of her lips, she added, "But you're right, I wasn't supposed to say anything. Sherlock made me promise not to." 

"Well I'm not going to rat you out," John promised. "Honestly, you've saved him from a very unpleasant drug testing process. Not to mention having to face Mycroft about it. And you've kept me from having a heart attack in the process. So if ever gossiping could be considered a good deed, this is it. Honestly, after what I've been thinking, and now hearing this instead..." John laughed again and shook his head. "I mean, you actually walked in on _Sherlock Holmes_ having sex with some woman on our kitchen table. You can't ask me not to be dead curious about everything. Even if we just keep this between the two of us." Honestly, after the stress he'd been experiencing, John felt he needed this. 

Mary hesitated, but a good long look at John's face seemed to convince her. Though she didn't sound quite as giddy and relieved about the whole thing as he was feeling, she at least was human enough to nod and say, "You'll understand if I can't tell you very much..." 

"Look, you've already put me off ever eating at that table," John said with a smile. "I don't need or want the gory details. I'm just trying to reconcile this very incongruous revelation with a man who is about as asexual as anyone I've ever met." He tried to think back to any conversations he'd had with Sherlock about this particular topic. Of course, one did stand out above all the others. 

John scratched at the side of his face as he said, "Though you know, when he came back to London after... everything, he did tell me he'd lost his virginity. Well, I mean I heard him say something to Sally Donovan that prompted me to ask about it. I think he kind of wanted me to know, to be honest. Sort of a schoolboy moment of bragging."

"Because sex is something grown men _never_ brag about," Mary replied with a roll of her eyes.

"Thing is, I wasn't quite sure I believed him. He never mentioned it again and I almost started to wonder if I'd imagined it. Obviously not." He really needed Mary to help him understand this whole thing. Not just for prurient reasons or gossip, but because this was a paradigm-shifting revelation with regards to Sherlock. Accepting that not only had his friend become sexually active, but he was evidently so infatuated with a woman that it was actually distracting from his work. The full extent of this was just now sinking in, and it occurred to John that regardless of the cause, Sherlock had still been completely ignoring his case. And that was cause for concern. What woman could have done that to him?

"Okay, I ask this out of a genuine desire to understand what's going on with Sherlock, how he got himself into this situation," John said carefully. 

"All right..." Mary said, looking like she was bracing herself.

"What was this woman like?" John asked. He wanted to know what kind of woman could have turned Sherlock in such a significant way. There was some logic to his having lost his virginity while supposedly dead; anyone could become desperate enough for human contact and interaction at a certain point. John had assumed that was what happened with the woman Sherlock had told him about before. Not to mention, Sherlock hadn't been sober most of that time, so who knew how that had affected his judgement. Still, what kind of woman attracted the attention of Sherlock Holmes? 

Mary seemed extremely hesitant to tell him that. "I'm really not supposed to say. I've already said much more than I ought to have." 

"Just the basics?" John ventured. He wasn't certain why this was so interesting to him. There was just some niggling desire in the back of his mind to piece this together, to figure out as much of it as he could. _That's what Sherlock would do_ , John thought by way of justifying it to himself. Perhaps it was an invasion of privacy, but then how much privacy could one expect when he did this thing in the common area of a shared hotel suite? No, John deserved to know at least a little about who this mystery woman was.

Mary looked away, opening her mouth a moment before closing it. Clearly thinking this through. Her lips were pursed tightly when she looked back at her fiancé. At first John thought she might cut the conversation off right there, but instead she said carefully, "She was beautiful. Dark hair, light eyes. Smartly dressed."

"They didn't get undressed?" John asked involuntarily, once again surprised by the sort of scene Mary had evidently walked in on. Mary gave him a look, and he replied guiltily, "Sorry, go on."

"She was Italian, she seemed...." Mary grimaced slightly before carefully saying, " _commanding_."

John blinked a moment, feeling suddenly sobered. While he'd certainly been a little concerned about what kind of woman could distract Sherlock to his extent, John hadn't even thought about that _other_ Woman. Not until something clicked in the way Mary described the woman Sherlock was with now. But now he realised there might be more method to how Sherlock had chosen this particular woman. And his previous concerns about Sherlock's psychological state resurfaced to some extent. If he was going after a woman that reminded him of _that_ one... John shuddered a little. 

Then something else occurred to him. Frowning, he asked, "Did he happen to say... it wasn't the same woman as before, was it? His... first, I mean." That might indicate this whole thing was a little more planned than John had previously assumed. Which was a sobering thought. John finally felt he was coming down from the shock he'd taken at this revelation, and could now think a little more straight. He suddenly understood where Mary's uneasiness may have been coming from. Judging by her reaction alone, John's guess was right. Which finally drained all the humour from the situation. It occurred to John that Mary may have already realised this was a premeditated situation, and judging by the fact that she'd clearly spoken to Sherlock when this unfortunate event had happened, that may have been the substance of her talk with Sherlock.

Mary looked more uncomfortable now than John had ever seen her, and now he felt he understood the reasons a bit better. She must have her own concerns about Sherlock's behaviour, and possibly her own further knowledge of the details. She plead with him, "Please, John, I really can't tell you any more. As much as I wish I could. You're concerned, and you're right to be... but I promised Sherlock I wouldn't say anything. If he finds out I told you any of this, he may really never tell me anything again." 

John was sympathetic to her plight. It had taken a good chunk of the six months the three of them had lived together before Sherlock had seemed comfortable with Mary's constant presence. But now what he was gathering about this woman had made him extremely uneasy. John felt the need to explain and somewhat excuse himself. "I don't want to put you in a bad way with Sherlock. Just when you described this woman she certainly seems.... his type." 

"He has a type?" Mary asked, clearly still uncomfortable with revealing more herself, but willing to ask questions of John at least. And he did owe her further explanation of his concerns.

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I just realised this woman sounds like someone who might remind him of... well, _the_ Woman, so he called her. The only woman I've ever seen him show interest in." His lips twisted into a grimace. "Well, more than interest, really. Obsession. And you know what kind of obsessive personality he can have..."

Mary nodded in growing understanding, "You mean the Adler woman?" 

Just hearing the name send a shudder up John's spine, which was soon followed by the residual anger and tension thinking of her always brought on. "Irene Adler," John said lowly, by way of confirming Mary's question. He had never told her the full story of how that woman had manipulated and emotionally devastated Sherlock. It had felt somehow too intrusive to give those details, even to Mary. Only a few people knew of Sherlock's shameful behaviour in that scenario, of the near-disastrous results. John himself didn't know precisely how their final confrontation had gone down. Mycroft’s files on the incident, which he'd leant to John, only indicated the facts of the case, with dry descriptions of her actions towards Sherlock as if they were merely tactical moves. Which, in the end, John realised they were.

 Surely Sherlock had come to understand that himself? Based on the last conversation they'd had, though, John knew in his gut that this wasn't the case. He knew very well that Sherlock had retained residual feelings for Irene, even after everything that had happened. On a human level, John understood that it was impossible to simply shut off your feelings for someone. It was just that he'd never expected Sherlock to operate on that level.

John realised he'd gone a very long time without speaking, having turned his mind inward. He now noticed Mary staring at him intently, curious. He knew that she'd told him some things she was uncomfortable with sharing. Perhaps he ought to do the same. Though something in the back of his mind bristled at the possibility of betraying Sherlock, in the end, John reasoned, both he and Mary had the detective's best interest at heart. They ought to both be fully informed.

"I'm just a little concerned that he might have slipped into a bit of projection. Fantasising." As unnerving as that sounded in reference to Sherlock, John couldn't think of another explanation.

Going by the way Mary's face blanched, John knew he must be on to something. The psychologist swallowed, then said carefully, the distress evident in her voice, "I don't know much about the Adler woman. Just that she lured him in, played him, took advantage of his... inexperience." She exhaled, clearly uncomfortable. "Honestly, I never looked into it or asked you more about it because it felt too intrusive. If her whole goal was to humiliate Sherlock, it seemed that simply talking about it would give her another victory."

 "Maybe, but you deserve to know the context. Especially if he's really trying to... I dunno, relive some kind of obsession with Irene..."

The thought made John feel ill. But when he looked at Mary, he saw the compassion in her eyes. And he took a moment to appreciate the kindness and consideration Mary had for their notably difficult flatmate. He had been so worried early on that they would have some kind of major dust up, that Sherlock's numerous audacious activities around the flat would eventually push he and Mary into a confrontation. But they'd made it through all that. Through the rehab, through all of John's worrying about his sometimes unstable friend, through the body parts in the fridge. And now for her to have to deal with _this_ _..._ well, it was something John himself didn't ever imagine having to face. Let alone having poor Mary walk in on such a thing. 

At the very least, she deserved to understand why he was now growing concerned for Sherlock. After all they'd been through, Sherlock had become Mary's friend as well. And he would remain part of this strange pseudo-family indefinitely. It may be embarrassing to Sherlock, but ultimately, John reasoned, it seemed reasonable not to keep Mary in the dark.

 John gave a long sigh before making his decision, reaching for Mary's laptop on the coffee table and flipping it open. "What are you doing?" she asked cautiously.

"You've seen the imitation. You ought to see the original. I don't know, maybe you can make sense of what the hell Sherlock's doing and why. Obviously I'm glad he's not on the cocaine again, but if he's using this woman as..." He didn't really want to finish that thought, but was certain by her expression that Mary understood the gravity of where he was going. Attempting to lighten his own mood, John added, "That PhD in psychology has to be good for something, eh?"

Mary did smile a little at that. Though she still seemed incredibly uneasy with this whole scenario. Not that John could blame her. She'd clearly not only walked in on Sherlock in a compromising situation; she'd actually then _spoken_ to him about it. That was enough to do anyone's head in. 

Finally, John hit the return key on the search query he'd typed in Google. In the half second before the search results appeared, he braced himself as well as he could for the horrible memories he knew he's be facing.

Then there she was -- Irene Adler, _the_ _Woman_ , Sherlock Holmes's stunning, brilliant, cruel Achilles heel. John's stomach twisted and the residual anger in the back of his mind spiked to something teetering on momentary rage. He could not believe what that woman had done to Sherlock, both in the sense of what she was willing to do and how hard he was willing to fall for it. He swallowed hard before turning the screen so Mary could get a better look. "That's her," he said through gritted teeth.

Mary blinked. Then blinked again, longer this time, as if attempting to reboot her eyes. A deep frown of confusion creased her forehead. Eventually, she said tentatively, "Yes, that's her. But how on earth did you find a photo of her...?"

Now John's confusion matched hers. "What do you mean? She had a public website. She was a dominatrix -- not exactly the type to hide."

"But how did you know where to look for her? You never even saw this woman," Mary asked.

"Irene...?" he prompted. What did she mean he'd never seen her? They seemed to be talking at cross-purposes somehow.

"No," Mary said slowly, by way of explanation, "Not Irene, _that_ woman." She pointed to the computer screen. "The one Sherlock was... with." 

Something unsettling was stirring within John's chest, niggling at the back of his brain. But he did his best to tamp that down, to dismiss it. He wasn't quite sure what Mary was getting at, but he _was_ quite sure this uncertainty was putting him on edge. He took a breath before saying slowly, "Let me be clear: the woman you caught Sherlock with looked like this woman," he indicated the screen, "Irene Adler?" 

Now Mary paled, her jaw dropping open momentarily as she looked at the photo once again, then back at John. She looked as though something had finally clicked for her. "No, John," the rock-hard therapist voice from earlier had now turned to diamond. " _That's her_. That's the woman Sherlock was... the woman I met."

The sound dropped out of the room, leaving John's ears ringing as time seemed to slow down. He could feel the blood rushing out of his face, could feel his limbs going cold. At the same time, his chest felt suddenly warm, almost burning, and constricted. It took him a few seconds to realize he hadn't even let out the carbon dioxide in his lungs, let alone breathed in new oxygen. When John did suck in a breath, it was shaky and did nothing to calm his racing heart or steady his wavering equilibrium. He was once again glad to be sitting down, though he still braced himself against the armrest of the couch.

Then, the haze in his brain cleared, and a flood of realizations hit him in rapid succession.

_Irene Adler. Alive._

  _Sherlock knew._

 _For how long? Long enough to have seen her when he was supposedly dead._  

_'See' her. No, call it what it was. They were fucking. He'd let himself be seduced by that-_

_And to carry on here, now. In the middle of a case._

_Irene Adler. The Woman. The terrorist. The woman who beat him._

_No, worse. The Woman who ripped out a heart John had hardly known Sherlock had._  

_Doing it again._

_Irene Adler, alive all this time, and Sherlock knew. That son of a bitch. That incomprehensible idiot._

It was at this moment, when John's shock had started to snowball into fury, that the door to the suite swung open, and Sherlock Holmes entered with a spring in his step, as if he hadn't been recklessly delaying their case for hours. The kind of stride normally reserved for excitement over a case lead. Only he hadn't been on the case. He hadn't been anywhere near it. He'd been _shagging the somehow alive Irene Adler all afternoon instead_. The thought brought a taste of bile into John's mouth, but he could tell straight away he was right. Sherlock's hair was damp, having clearly just showered. As if that could wipe off the absolute filth he'd exposed himself to.

But it was the spring, the near-swagger in his step that pushed John over the edge. Sherlock had just begun to say, "Tell me that imbecile Rinaldi turned over the-" when John, unaware of what he was doing and unable to stop himself, shot up from the couch and barrelled straight into the consulting detective. Normally alert and with good reaction times, the lackadaisical Sherlock did not have time to counter. Instead, John tackled his friend, both of them tumbling over the living room chair and onto the floor with a loud _thud_. Sherlock gave a sharp moan as the wind was knocked out of him. 

Without pausing to consider what the hell he was doing, John rolled onto his knees straight away, grabbed Sherlock by the slightly damp collar of his shirt and hauled him up off the ground to a seated position. Still struggling to catch his breath, and by the look in his eyes completely confused (and possibly, John thought, still a bit drunk), Sherlock was unable to counter before John growled in his friend's face, "You lying bastard!"

"John-" Sherlock started in confusion, but was cut off by an abrupt, direct punch in the mouth that caught him entirely off-guard. Not to mention, his lower lip began bleeding instantly, and he looked a little dazed. Normally Sherlock could have flipped the situation, gotten the advantage on John in hand-to-hand combat. After all, the detective had spent a year and a half surviving a hunt for a network of the world's most dangerous people. He'd picked up some skills along the way. But evidently that could not prepare the inebriated, irrationally loose detective for the shock of John's uncontrollable anger.

With Sherlock's eyes locked on him in utter confusion, John knew he'd done something difficult -- he'd gotten the detective's full attention. His grip tightened on Sherlock's shirt as John shouted in pure rage, " _You've been with Irene fucking Adler!"_  

For once, it was Sherlock's turn to go white with shock.

 


End file.
